distance (part twenty-eight)

You know when people do that thing where they sort of hold hands, but really it's more like the straight-interlocking of fingers, because both people are too busy looking at their hand and the other person's hand and how they might fit together or marveling at the difference or sameness in size and shape of their fingernails or whatever it is that people do when they do that?

I want that.
I want that, badly.

This morning, I think,
In the throes of second sleep,
I had a dream.
      It had a strange, soothing atmosphere.
As always, I only remember snapshots.
      One vignette was this:
          I was sitting next to you, somewhere,
          It felt like the backseat of a car,
          but there was gray light,
              like it was an overcast day, and the front half of the car was missing.
          We were side-by-side,
              leg-to-leg,
              shoulder-to-shoulder.
          I leaned my head to rest on your shoulder. You leaned your head to rest on my head.
          I couldn't see your face, but I knew you were smiling.
          I was smiling, too. (Obviously.)
          And we were both playing with our hands in that way,
          locking straight fingers together, knuckle-to-knuckle.
              If it had been real life, I can only surmise (if my history with anyone else is any indicator)
              that you would have made some comment about how small my hands are.
                  As soon as anyone makes that observation to me, out loud,
                  and holds up their hand in comparison, palm-to-palm,
                  or curls their fingers around my fist in demonstration,
                  they know me. We have crossed that line
                  between acquaintance and friend. They start seeing me. (I think.)

I woke up, and my chest cavity was filled with warmth.

For some reasons, that gesture with the hands says,
to me,
      "Yes, I see you, I see the size of you, the measure of you,
      and I still want you,
      I still want to hold you 'til the sun bursts,
      or at least until we shuck these skins, whichever comes first."

How do I let you do this to me,
when you don't even have to do anything?
My gut and my mind are doing all the work--my head is hot and my insides are all twisted up.

Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy‽‽

I want to see you.
I want you to see me.

-Dana Winter