Her Lover’s Hands
(Previously published in the December 2003 issue of T-Zero Xpandizine: The Writers' Ezine.)
by Renee Holland Davidson
It was their hands, always the hands that captured her--her body, her spirit. Dolts were they who believed eyes were the windows to the soul. Eyes lie; hands cannot.
Eliza wore a turquoise band around the little finger of her left hand, a reminder that she never bowed to convention. Her pinkie, long and straight, leaned away from the ring finger, an indication of a free thinker.
She had dated many men, princes and toads alike. She didn’t care about handsome faces, bulging muscles or flashy cars--only the beauty of their hands, the hands that would hold her, would love her.
“Fair lady, let Omar reveal your future.”
Startled, Eliza looked up, then sneered. This man was nothing but a carnival clown dressed in a purple silk shirt with billowing sleeves, a gold hoop piercing one ear.
What did she expect at a psychic’s convention? This wasn’t a place for real purveyors of truth to revel in spiritual wisdom. This was a freak fest for the money-hungry who preyed on desperate souls.
Today’s outing had been Serena’s idea. Eliza had been meditating in the quiet darkness of her living room when her sister strode in and unceremoniously yanked open the velvet drapes. “It’s time for you to forget about Paul.”
Eliza clenched her eyes against the assault of light, but otherwise ignored Serena. Her sister would never understand her. Paul hadn’t understood her either.
At first she’d thought him sincere; aware of the truth held in his palm, the perfect grooves that foretold his passion. But one morning she awoke snuggled in his arms, felt the cold clamminess of his skin, and knew she had lost him.
“He was a jerk, forget about him. What kind of pig disappears without a word?”
Serena stalked over to Eliza and yanked her out of the chair.
“Come on, get dressed. You need to get out of this house before you become
the neighborhood’s mysterious witchy woman.”
She had followed Serena, and now found herself in front of this huckster’s table, inexplicably drawn to the man with the bushy mustache. She sat down and held out her palm to him, then flinched when he took it. At once, Eliza saw the orange-red aura that surrounded him in shimmering waves, gasping when she realized how similar this man’s aura was to Paul’s.
This man didn’t belong there anymore than she did.
Omar took her hand in his, traced the heart line across her palm, and stroked the tender flesh at the base of each finger. He spoke with an odd accent that she couldn’t place, a voice that belonged to crackling fires and moonless nights. “This shows me you are a woman who thrives on sensual pleasures.”
Shocked, she pulled her hand away. Disturbed not only by the words, but the truth behind them.
Undeterred, Omar reached for her hand again. But this time, he placed his right hand in hers, palm up. He pointed to the long line that began mid-palm beneath his pinkie and curved to end between his second and third finger. “And this tells you that I am the man to give you that pleasure.”
Eliza rubbed a finger over the vertical lines carved into the thick, soft mound of flesh below his thumb. She felt his heart, his spirit opening to her.
She took him home to her bed. They spent three luxurious days exploring their newfound love.
On the third night, they were lying in bed, Omar with one arm underneath Eliza, each hand gently cupping a breast. Eliza picked up his right hand, once again tracing the heart line in his palm, kissing the place underneath his index finger where it ended. “Eternal love,” she whispered.
Omar kissed the top of her head and laughed. “Come on, you don’t really believe that crap, do you?”
Eliza closed her eyes then froze for an instant, her body stiffening within Omar’s embrace.
Opening her eyes, she gave her head a small shake then kissed the tips of Omar’s fingers. She slipped out of bed and pulled on her black satin robe. “I’ll just be a moment.”
She walked slowly into the kitchen, as if in a trance; her mind barely registered the cold tile beneath her bare feet or the fluorescent light’s glare. She continued to the pantry, to the far corner shelf where she shoved aside jars of preserves and pickled cabbage. Her fingers crawled across the papered shelves, finally coming to rest on
the smooth wooden handle that poked out between two large jars. Eliza gently moved the jars aside, then grasped the axe with both hands, and drew it from its hiding place.
She laid the axe on the floor, then replaced the jars, ignoring the hands that undulated in the amber liquid, almost as though they were waving.
Renee Holland Davidson lives in Southern California with her husband, Mark, and their two mischievous mutts, Josie and Kinsey. "Her Lover's Hands" was originally published in the December 2003 issue of T-Zero Xpandizine: The Writer's Ezine. Contact Renee.