Warm Me Up

His hands were warm against her winter hands.

He was shocked. How could a person like her ever feel cold? She, who was happiness and joy, had hands cold as ice.

“Your hands are really warm,” she said, pressing her forehead against this shoulder. She had a soft smile on her lips and her eyes were closed. She couldn't believe this was happening. Out of all the people in the world he had noticed her.

Their fingers intertwined and all he could think was how bad he had wanted to be with her.

They didn't remember when all the double-intention talk had started. When did their words meant something more than mere politeness to each other? When did he started to grab her cheek to kiss her hello? When did she started to press her hand against his chest whenever he hugged her a whole?

“I once heard that happens because not enough oxygen reaches your hands.”

Damn.

He said the most theoretical thing he could possibly say. Why did it sound to her as the sweetest words ever?

“Well, I am glad your oxygen likes you and makes your hands this warm. My hands are always cold.”

He pulled her away just enough to match their eyes. “Not on my watch.”

She laughed. Funny how he noticed that her eyes closed and her teeth showed and that her face would look down.

“Not on your watch, huh? Fine. I guess I could put my hands under your watch,” she admitted.

But her heart? Her love? Her deepest emotions?

And what about him? He was scared, too. His heart had went through enough suffering. Could she comfort his solitude? He had warm hands but a heart so wounded that might as well be cold-dead.

Her phone rang. It was time to go. They let go of each other and said their goodbyes.

His hands were warm but now so are hers.