His hands were the first thing she noticed about him all those years ago, the way he moved them through a discussion as though he were conducting it.  Those eyes, that intensity -- that was the second thing, but his hands were first.

Gesticulating wildly as he yelled at a reporter, his hands caught her eye.  Strong, passionate, and intense.  She was younger then, and stupid.  Or at least naïve.  She immediately equated him with his hands; she thought him strong, passionate, and intense.

This, he would have told her, was illogical, a false conclusion.  She didn't give him a chance to tell her; she fought with him instead.

She fought, argued, debated, and it felt right.  She felt giddy.  Their argument was exhilarating in a way she hadn't imagined before that day.  He didn't dismiss her, as so many others had, as a pinko-liberal feminista.  Even though he took the opposite side of every subject she raised, she could sense that he was more idealistic than she.  She'd never honestly thought that was possible until she met him.

She didn't think a lot of things were possible before she met him.  He of the fiery oratory and steadfast beliefs.  He of the intense eyes.  He of a voice that was more passionate in its quietude than hers in her full-throated roar.

It turned her on even then, the disparity.

But she never gave in; she never even acknowledged that awareness.  Back then she was brash and shy at the same time.  Bold and timid.  It took years for her to grow confident, to grow secure in her sexuality.  To feel pride in her sensuality, her body.

She's glad now, as those hands roam her body, that she waited.  She's glad she came to him as an equal, active woman instead of a coltish girl.

She's grateful, as she sinks down onto him, that she waited.  As he grips her hips lightly, she can see him then, those same hands flamboyant in the air.  He moves beneath her, his mouth forming her name, and she can still remember the first time he yelled it in anger.  He's yelling it again, but this time it's supplication.

She can see his younger self, his clean-shaven face, as he watches her move above him with those intense eyes.  She grips his shoulders as those hands slide up her body to capture her breasts.  She whimpers his name as those fingers slip between her legs, bringing her over the edge.

It's always been his hands, she thinks.

And then she smiles as they pull her close.

THE END

05.05.01