Strong, smooth hands, with alabaster skin that stretched taut over delicate bones. The ridges of his knuckles, those glorious knuckles, were most emphasized when clasped tight and secure around the neck and bow of a glossy violin. His nails, short and trimmed, were filed down by crisp strings during early morning violin sessions. Subtle callouses peppered along his fingertips on his left hand, no doubt from the bite of the instrument's thin strings as he pressed on them. I dared to imagine how it would feel if he were to brush those lithe fingers along my sides, stroking, just barely, at the soft flesh there. Of course, I could never tell him this, for any mention of how I felt would surely ruin the friendship that had been constructed on run though out the city. Despite myself, I always caught myself dreaming of the day when he realized there was something more. I imagine he'd clasp my hands in his as he told me, his thumb trailing itself over the back of my hand. I would look down. Denying. I feel nothing intimate for you. He would laugh, his hand abandoning mine to tilt my chin up, forcing me to look him in the eyes. I'd feel the callous on my throat, his fingertips pressing into my throat, lightly, barely there. Doctor, I know when you lie to me. He'd get me there, watch as I stumbled on words, his other hand reaching up to curl around the back of my neck, playing with the hair on the back of my neck. He'd run a thumb over my bottom lip, leaning in closer. His breath would dance across my cheeks, each gentle blow just fueling the shivers that would surely be shooting down my spine. Our fore heads pressed together, he would comment on the way my hair was scented. Like a breath of fresh air. I never understood his comments but I'd agree anyways, pressing out noses together, my hands grasping the wrinkled collar of the violet shirt. Just as he pulled me closer, our lips about to touch, I would awake, gasping for air, the sudden mess of blankets that surrounded me choking me. I never would long for him after I had woken, for even my subconscious mind knew that no matter what, he would never be that nurturant. Never that compassionate.
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