He made a heart-shaped ring out of the plastic thingy that comes off when you twist plastic bottle caps. He fashioned it carefully and placed it around the neck of the bottle to take its picture. He was not satisfied, though. He snapped a couple of shots and decided that the ring needed a female hand. So he took my left hand and slipped the uncomfortable makeshift ring around my finger. He tried to fit it nicely, and when he had done what he could, he took another shot of the ring in my hand. Still, he was not pleased. A female hand with a heart-shaped ring? The story must have looked incomplete to him. Who gave her the ring? It was at that point, when I was so busy trying to figure out the error in formulas in our school’s grading system, that he took my hand and held it in his. He positioned our hands several ways and decided that the best way to do it was palm against palm, my left hand resting against his left hand.
I totally forgot about that event until a couple of days ago when I was browsing the pictures on my phone. I was fascinated that the pictures themselves were able to tell a story. I don’t know if he actually intended them to do so. Allow me this moment’s confession: I loved how my hand held by his looked like. The clasp itself was not romantic, at least as I see it. What I particularly liked about our hands, though, is that his hand can engulf mine. I have big hands, but his were bigger, a statement of the probability that I might be able to rely on his strength.
And yes, this post neither has a clear beginning nor end. Deal with it.