Our Hands

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They fit.

I like the soft friction of your rough palm on my smooth one. I love the contrast in color it makes -- my light brown skin on your darker skin. I observed that there are no awkward spaces in between our clasped fingers. My hands, which used to be always too big for a girl, gloried in the feel of being enfolded in something larger than itself.

If hands that fit one another is the only indicator of destiny, we would have been set for life.

But as it is, I am not a believer of this theory. Physical measurements are too easy --- they make up half of the coincidences in the world.

Or, it could be that after so many years I'm still running. I can't run though if you're holding my hands. So please let go. And remind me never to hold your hand again.

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