Other times I had touched your hand, I do not know how many, I do not know if many, not that never, maybe never, not like that. But the confusion of initiating this writing is almost unnecessary when what has been is no longer meaningful with a milestone that erases the history of what was not. Not that never, not like that.
It all started with the innocent touch of the nail end of our nails, yours delicate and long, mine the consequence of routine, all in the joke of the digital contact of the film Reching, ET uncomfortable, dull, not funny. The static of the classroom carpet made a slight spark in the third falenge, just at the touch of the llemas, which happens to me every now and then in my custom of dragging the feet and your frequency by the rubber insoles. There it ended, there was no more.
The afternoon left in the desperation of the Datashow warming my ears, the hopelessness to end the Saturday, the laughter of photographs of other times that will not return. The hour arrived, the afternoon, the night, as if everything were one more day. The wait for dinner, for you to arrive, for you to laugh. Once again, the greeting in the timid hand, the inevitable laughter of life, the honest look of respect, the cares that must be attended to.
But in the dark entrance of that enclosure, with the bower up of lianas in disarray I felt the soft touch of the torso of your hand in mine. Sooner or later, with the same and more intense feeling of the front seat of my car; one of ida, one of coming, soft and innocent of the narrowness of the portal and the precaution of the uncertain stone floor. It was chilling the feeling of your smooth skin in the 19 hairs of just 1.83 square centimeters from the back of my hand. In logarithmic regression, they bristled, taking that sensation through the follicle, to the base, with the reaction of goose bumps, penetrating the stratum corneum, lucid and prickly, and finally grinding loudly in the scaphoid bone. Then in positive radical, in less intensity but similar connection, tangent to a constant to not forget the milestone.
It was an unexpected return to a moment of my childhood when I think I saw you somewhere else. With the same smile, savoring the straw of the soda, while with the eyebrow you looked at me as if no one else existed. Gone were the other memories, when I would have seen you in the coincidences of these turns, with the bad taste of the dusty road when it is left behind, in the distance and forgetting boring villages. As far as the thought, as cold as the cordiality, another day, another night, another Friday, that more gives ... do not go ... do not forget ...
I was able to experience what parchment in reverse, devouring the intensity of your soft skin, as it advanced from a nonexistent inflection point without the integral being composed, the contact from the metacarpal to the phalanx where this story begins. This or the other, yours, mine, life itself. Every inch of the back of your hand reminded me that I exist, in the unforgettable feeling of a Tuesday night, not this, not the last two.
Then I missed it. The romance of the back of your hand touching mine, without wanting or wanting to the beat of your smile from the left eyelash, where there seems to be a mole and just before the hair falls on your face; Not much, not much, strand by strand. That same feeling that causes a Saturday afternoon, with the emotion of Thursday that was gone, when everything seems to be again the same. In the acceptance of the status, with the good humor to hide the stress and again, that feeling that everything will be the same. Again, not so new, with the memory of that moment that surpassed the sublime one.
With and without hope that there will be another, better. With the back of your hand, another Monday, not like those Tuesdays, yes like those, not with anyone else.