his hands on the water glass

by jamelah

Posted to Stories on 2003-05-28 20:37:00

“It’s a beautiful day today,” he said, not looking at me.

“Mmmm.”

So there we were, reduced to talking about the weather. Like always, my fingers were nervous. I thought about the cigarettes in my bag, but I had told him that I’d quit smoking, so I worked on tearing my napkin to shreds. The dishes had been cleared already, and the napkin was my only option. The napkin, my spoon, and the straw that stood in my now-empty glass. I’d already chewed up all of my ice cubes.

His water glass sat in front of him, sweating. The ice had almost entirely disappeared; a few thin slivers still floated around, but they would be gone soon. He hadn’t touched his water, though he hadn’t ordered anything to drink with lunch, either. I wondered if his mouth was dry, and what that dryness tasted like. I imagined my tongue drawing a line across his bottom lip, leaving a trail of wetness there.

“What are you doing?” His eyes were on my fingers.

I momentarily stopped my napkin shredding. I shrugged. “I needed something to do.”

“Well stop it. It’s a mess.”

I looked down at the pile of paper in front of me. I’d torn the napkin into six long strips, and was now reducing each of the strips into six small squares. I ripped another piece. He couldn’t see how methodical I was being. “Sorry.”

He sighed. I turned my attention back to my napkin. I had just finished the squares and was tearing each of them in half, when he put his hands on top of mine, stilling them. “You’re making me nervous.”

I blinked a few times. Our eyes locked. I wouldn’t move and break the touch. “What do you have to be nervous about?”

“Nothing. Just,” he let out a sharp breath, “what are you doing?”

I looked at his hands on top of mine. “Nothing. I’m not. I’m not doing anything.”

He slid back in his chair, taking his hands away, folding them on the table. My hands sat paralyzed on top of my pile of napkin. I was afraid to move, but I could feel all that paper touching me, and I was angry that he’d interrupted me before I could finish. Now it was a mess. My fingers curled around my incomplete napkin shreds, pressing them into my palms. I wadded it all together into a tight ball and stuck it in the ashtray. “Better?”

He slid his gaze to the ashtray, then to my face. My finger was tracing the edge of my spoon. “Why do you always have to touch things?”

“Why won’t you just drink your water?”

“What?”

“How can you just sit there and not drink anything? It’s annoying.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He picked up his glass and downed a swallow. “There. Fine. Happy? Can you stop feeling up everything on the table now?”

“I’m not feeling you up. What’s your problem?”

That’s when he really looked at me, his mouth slightly open. I smiled, then took my straw for a spin around my empty glass, driving it lazily with my index finger. He let out a short, frustrated breath and I knew he wanted to tell me to stop. He was watching my hand, and I tilted my head to the side, watching him watch me turning the straw around and around.

He was watching my hand. His fingertips touched his water glass, disrupting its sweat. He drew a line down its side, then looked at his wet finger, touched it to his lip. He was lost, following a thought somewhere, and I was not a part of it. My hand stilled. “Hey,” I said.

His gaze had gone soft, unfocused. He shook his head. “Huh?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

He picked up his glass. I looked at the ring of moisture it had left on the table. He held it for awhile, turning it in his hands. I wanted to put my fingers in the circle of condensation. I wanted to touch his face. He set the glass down and sighed. “I should go.”

“That’s it, then?”

He stood. “I guess.” He picked up his glass and downed its contents. The movement was so sudden, so not like him. “I mean–” he didn’t finish.

He looked at me and I nodded. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He turned, and he didn’t look sure. But I stayed where I was, watching him walk away, noticing how he picked up certainty with every passing step.

I thought maybe he’d look back and see me there, without him. But he didn’t. So I waited until he was out of view, and reached in my bag for my cigarettes.