A Telling Hand

My hands cupped hers. With my thumb, I traced the lines of her palms, enjoying the touch of her skin. Soft and hot, it reminded me of warm milk or electrically-charged satin. All other women desired hands such as these. Every commercial for soap or body cream proclaimed it, but paled in comparison to her skin.

I began to rotate my thumbs in small circles that slowly grew wider until I branched off along the lengths of her fingers. Long and slender, they were graceful and responsive, almost playful. We fenced briefly before making up with fingertip hugs and kisses; a morse code of love.

Something wasn’t right though, something important was missing. Love and desire were pushed aside by a question that bubbled up with a force that could not be denied. I felt a sudden chill that rushed along the wake of that infernal question that wouldn’t leave me alone. Pulling her closer, as if to would ward off my inner cold, I looked Linda straight in the eye.

Her smile faded with my question.

“Where is your ring?”

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