I trace the veins on the back of my hand. Follow them to my wrist, to the insides of my elbows. I trace a ‘H’. A ‘W’. And then the intertwining lines. Soft touches, whispers on my skin. I watch my fingers play on my skin with unblinking eyes, almost entranced. Its obsessive, the repetitive motion. Soon enough, I’m staring, but I’m no longer looking. My eyes turn inward, and the fingers tracing my veins are no longer mine.

He is playing with my hands, turning them, caressing them, simply holding them. His fingers are intertwined with mine, warming my icy ones. Somehow, my hands are always cold, My fingers like icicles. And his, are just right. So he holds my hands in his, rubs them, envelops them, warms them.  Traces my veins, shaping the letters with his smiling mouth. His eyes intent, but laughing as he writes on my skin. His fingers, moving, always moving. Leaving ghostly messages on my skin.

I shake myself out of my reverie. I look at my hands. They are pale. absolutely frozen. I stuff them in my pockets and get up.

Pockets are warm enough.