There Were Hands
Max Hromek
Content Warning: This story includes scenes of sexual coercion.
There were hands.
There were hands on my body. They were your hands. Your hands on a body. Your hands on a back—my back. I think it was my back. My back pressed into the bed.
Your hands were on breasts—my breasts? Lips. I remember lips. Lips on lips. Lips on a neck, on a stomach, on a thigh, on—
Hands. Someone’s hands were on your hands. Someone’s hands were clenching sheets.
The first time I saw you, we were both in sophomore year of high school. What would that make us? Sixteen? Fifteen? I can’t be sure. It was sophomore year of high school, and I saw you. You saw me. We crammed ourselves into a car. There weren’t enough seats, so I sat on your lap. I barely knew you, and I sat on your lap. Your hands were my seatbelt. Each turn the car took, I felt you shift underneath me. I felt your hands holding me tight—squeezing me. Crushing me. I felt your breath on my neck, steady and slow like your heartbeat. Not like my heartbeat. My heart whirred like a fan, hummingbird wings pounding against my chest. I felt your fingers laced together in my lap.
Years later I found you on an app, swiping through faces until the universe showed me you. It made me look at you again like I did when we were sixteen or fifteen. Your face was round, cheeks warm and pink. It was still blotched with adolescence and shone like polished gold. Shaggy hair still framed your face like it did back when I was around to brush it aside. Brush it out of your big brown eyes—the same eyes.
Same hands.
Those hands. I felt those hands again as I stared at the nauseating glow of my phone screen. My stomach twisted in knots. My throat closed. You looked happy. I hated you for that. I hated your perfect crooked smile. I hated how nonchalant you were, lounging on a barstool, glass in hand. Your arms were open, shoulders pulled back. Your legs crossed in that uniquely masculine way. You were so non-threatening. Anyone would give you the benefit of the doubt. We were kids.
Who could blame you?
My hands started to sweat.
We held hands once. We walked through the woods behind your neighborhood. It was a tiny gravel path, only big enough for two people. Not many people knew about it, I don’t think. The countless times we walked it, I never saw anybody. I never saw anybody but you. I remember one June evening, I wore a bright yellow dress, its light chiffon hem tickled my knees as the breeze blew around us. I remember that dress. You bought it for me. It had a high collar that buttoned in the front right at my throat. It was suffocating.
“You love me,” you said.
That was back when I wore dresses. Back when I wore heels, and when my hair was long. The kinds of things you liked.
You wore a plaid shirt, purple, I think. Yellow and purple are complements, complementary colors. I remember the gravel crunching beneath our feet. I remember the sun setting. Only thin dashes of light could push through the thick summer trees—almost like stars. Stars in the daytime that sparkled on the leaves and the rocks and the grass. I want to imagine that it sparkled in your eyes as you looked at me.
I want to imagine that you looked at me.
We laughed. There was a tiny stream by your house. It wasn’t too small or too big. The crisp water murmured and stammered over the stones. The breeze answered back by rustling the leaves. The crunch of the gravel tried to add to the song, but the melody was only for two—the breeze and the water. I imagined they were in love. No matter how the gravel protested, nothing could come between love.
You and I walked over a bridge. I balanced on the railing like a tightrope walker. I imagined the drop was one hundred feet. I imagined fire below. I needed help to cross, and you held my hand—not clutching. You barely held on, our fingertips grazing each other. Nothing more. I wobbled in my heels, but you knew I could make it. You said I was strong. You said I was brave.
On the other side of the bridge, we stood underneath a giant tree—I think it was oak—and we looked out over the stream. Trees curtained off the houses in the neighborhood. Bugs chased after each other, buzzing with glee. Squirrels shook branches.
I wanted to climb. I wanted to climb the tree and feel every branch in my hands, bark dry and rough and stable. I wanted to push myself up and see the sky. I imagined climbing so far I could touch the clouds. They would be bouncy and light yet coarse like sheep’s wool. The tree would grow before my eyes. Grow into the stratosphere and beyond. If I climbed high enough, I could see the stars, shining for me—only me. I wanted to see the stars. I wanted to feel the cool vacuum of space. I wanted to climb the tree, but I didn’t.
I was wearing a dress. It embarrassed me. A lot of things embarrassed me. You chuckled whenever I blushed. Any small, simple thing could send warm blood rushing into my face, and you would laugh. It was as if two bulbous red apples replaced my cheeks. I would try to hide my face, but you would always find me. You would find me, hold my face in your hands, and kiss it until I blushed even more. My face still stings from where you held me.
“You love me,” you said.
I didn’t climb the tree that day. Instead, we imagined the stream was a giant river. We wondered where it could go. We wondered how many trees we would have to cut down to build a boat and sail away. We talked about the future even though we were children. We talked about marriage and careers. We talked about buying a house.
I wanted kids, but you didn’t.
You wanted to move, but I didn’t.
You said you should probably be a lawyer like your father. I didn’t know what I wanted.
We talked about how we would raise our kids.
I was Catholic. You were Lutheran.
I wanted a church wedding. You wanted to elope.
We didn’t worry. We had plenty of time to figure it out. Plenty of time to plan.
We talked about college.
I would go somewhere close to you, so we could see each other on weekends.
I wouldn’t take too many classes.
I wouldn’t party without you.
We bundled close together even though the air was thick and wet. Your fingers laced with mine. Your face was etched into every stone. Your voice was soft in every passing breeze. When I looked at the sun pushing through the trees, I saw your smile. When I felt the warmth of summer, I felt your hand closed tight around mine. Your sweaty hand closed around my hand.
Your sweaty hand closed around something. Was it my hand? I can’t remember. All I remember is that we made a secret.
I want to believe that’s what it was.
I still have it. I have that secret. It’s pressed into my heart like a dried flower. It’s burned into my mind like a cattle brand. What did you do with our secret?
Did you keep it? Did you take it with you when you left?
Technology has forced me to remember the exact date I first saw you. I took a picture.
Saturday, March 29th, 2014.
I was sixteen. I still had braces. It looked like I had every piece of scrap metal in America forced into my mouth—a horribly mechanical smile. You had a terrible bowl cut that reminded me of the Beatles back then. Now I try to laugh.
Thursday, April 24th, we went to the mall.
Sunday, July 6th, we went to dinner.
Saturday, September 21st, we went to homecoming.
Saturday, April 18th, we went to prom.
I don’t know the date we broke up.
On Halloween, you had a party. We dressed up as Sid and Nancy. You loved the Sex Pistols, and the name made me blush. You said it would be fun. You said Sid and Nancy were an iconic couple. You said we had no other choice. You were Sid even though you played the guitar not the bass. Even though you had brown hair, not black. You wore that stupid leather jacket and your stupid black jeans. I used to like how you looked in them.
You made me be Nancy. I didn’t know who she was besides what you told me. You told me she was sexy. You told me she was the powerhouse. I imagined that she was the type to yell and shout when she didn’t get her way. I imagined that if someone hurt her, she’d punch them in the face and walk away laughing. I looked nothing like Nancy.
Your dad told me that I looked like Debbie Harry instead. He cracked open another beer and smiled at me as he shook the foam off his hand. I pulled down on my miniskirt, hoping to hide the fishnet tights you had gotten me. You went to answer the door, so I was left to entertain your father who was quickly becoming as drunk as we were. I stared at his forehead. I didn’t want to look in his eyes, so I stared at his receding hairline—already salt and pepper despite not even hitting fifty. I tried not to think about the eyes scanning me up and down. I tried to be good.
“Debbie Harry,” he said.
It was how I stood. My head cocked in the exact right way, he said, and my lips curled ever so slightly. I didn’t know what this meant.
You came back with a group of your friends, and we all stumbled out the backdoor and into the yard. I didn’t know your friends, mostly boys, and their girlfriends. The girls didn’t talk. They all looked the same, gangly love-struck zombies dressed in miniskirts and tube tops. None of them looked at me. They looked at their boyfriends. Or each other’s boyfriends. When someone told a joke they laughed in unison, squawking on command like exotic birds. I wondered if I was like them.
Someone brought something that smelled like nail polish remover. I didn’t want to try it, but you dared me. I could feel a circle of eyes digging into my skin, burning through me. The girls saw me for the first time and weren’t impressed. I threw my head back and drank it. My throat seized up. I could barely taste anything. I thought the inside of my throat was going to melt off. The girls were chuckling, so I forced myself to swallow. I coughed, trying to alleviate the pain. Nothing. I coughed again, but just produced bubbles of acidic backwash. I could feel tears burning my eyes. You laughed.
“You love me,” you said.
We started a bonfire using the booze as an accelerant. The blaze cast a halo of light around you, your back turned to me. You looked so confident. You looked so comfortable. I tried to look through you like you looked through me. My eyes strained to see past your skin and muscles and bones. I drew a cigarette up to my mouth.
The mouth that drank what you wanted it to.
The mouth that kissed you.
The mouth that spoke the words you wanted to hear and laughed when you commanded.
I stared into the woods, and the darkness filled me. We couldn’t see the stars at your house. I had to imagine they were there. I had to imagine the space dust falling from the sky and lifting me away. I had to imagine a distant planet where there was no Halloween or fathers or girlfriends.
I blew out the smoke. I didn’t start smoking until I met you, but by then I had learned to stop coughing. I learned to hold it long enough to feel it prickle in the back of my throat. I felt the warmth inside my mouth. Warmth I didn’t want to let go, but I learned to let it go. I learned to let things go.
You came up behind me and grabbed at my waist.
“Take a picture,” you said. Someone grabbed your phone from your outstretched hand. They took the picture. I don’t have that one. I wasn’t looking at the phone. You might have posted it on social media somewhere. I couldn’t find it even if I tried. I managed to erase you from my feed. Erase you from my story.
But I still see you every time I drive past your street. Anytime I walk the same sidewalks we walked, I feel your breath on my neck. I feel your eyes on my back.
I feel your hands on my waist.
I remember being told to find a husband. I was told to get married but don’t spend too much money doing it. My mom bought her wedding dress for $80 at a department store. It was ivory—not pure white—with giant sleeves and a bow on the back, ribbons trailing down to the floor. She got married in a huge church on the nice side of town and then had the reception in a cramped restaurant basement. I was told to have only one bridesmaid. That’s all I needed. I needed a husband and a bridesmaid. Any more than one bridesmaid would be excess. It was tacky. Why would anyone need that many friends? You agreed.
I was told to wait until marriage. I was told that it was going to be magical. It was going to fill me with light and warmth and grace. I would spend my whole life waiting for it. Nothing after it mattered. Marriage was the end, so wait until marriage. You disagreed.
On Thursday, September 4th we made a paper lantern and broke into an elementary school playground. I have pictures of that. I have a lot of pictures of that. You said it would be fun. You said I shouldn’t worry—it gave me wrinkles on my forehead. I was wearing a gray tank top, and you were wearing a black one. My braces were off by then, but now my teeth were stained yellow from the smoking. Your hair had grown out of the bowl-cut. You said you were going for Kurt Cobain. I agreed that it looked good. I didn’t care one way or another, but you liked it when I said you looked good.
“You love me,” you said.
We hopped the low, chain link fence and ran around the field until our lungs gave out, and we collapsed onto the ground. We kissed until our lips gave out, and we melted into each other’s arms. There, in the damp grass, we lit the lantern. I held it long enough to feel the warmth gently brush my hand. It was warmth like the first time we kissed, your breath hot on my face as you leaned in. I let go. I knew to let go.
We watched the lantern float into the sky. It danced around the clouds as the dim glow of the candle traced its way through the deep blue sky. It was like one sun rising as the other one set. If I couldn’t reach the stars then at least the lantern would. I gave my heart to the lantern to carry into space. I wanted it to carry me away with it. I wanted to dance with the clouds too.
I didn’t realize it then. Of course, I didn’t realize it.
You lit a cigarette. We finished it. We shared in our death, confident of the future.
We lit another one. The lantern was a speck in the sky. We didn’t look at each other. We just sat hand in hand, passing the cigarette between us.
One of my friends introduced me to you. She had a party, and you were single.
I was sixteen years old. So were you.
I was in my sophomore year of high school. So were you.
I remember you sauntering into the restaurant. You had on a black button-up and black tie, a regular rock star. You were so cool and collected. You knew who you were. You knew what you wanted. You acted so surprised when I liked the same music as you. Of course, I did. I liked anything you wanted me to like. I said anything you wanted me to say. You looked at me with eager eyes.
The same eyes that looked at me months later in the dim light of your room. Your dad had left for the night, winking at you on his way out. I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know what you had planned. We hurried to your room and fell onto your navy blue comforter. The wooden bedframe let out a soft groan under our weight. You hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on. The evening sun cast a gentle glow through your curtains, tinting the room orange. I asked what you wanted to do. I looked at you, and I blushed.
Your eyes had an insatiable hunger. They wanted to devour me. Those eyes demanded more than I could give. Those eyes held my gaze. They distracted me.
I felt my shirt slide off.
I felt my belt unbuckle.
I felt the cold conditioned air of your room stinging my bare legs.
“You love me,” you said.
Then there were hands. There were hands on my body. It must have been my body. There was no one else in the room. Your hands weren’t on your own body. They were on mine. I knew your face was buried in my neck, but I couldn’t feel it. I tried to focus on your breath. I tried to feel the sharp inhales and exhales. I couldn’t. I couldn’t feel it.
All I could do was stare at your hands—hands like lukewarm rubber gloves examining someone’s legs. Were they my legs? They looked like my legs, wide and blotchy. The hands gently ran across them like a mechanic verifying the integrity of an engine. Evaluating the value. Checking for damage. Pale white knees knocked together, and you laughed. Did you laugh or did I? Someone laughed, the hands guided the knees apart. Chapped lips pressed themselves against the skin. A hand slid between the thighs.
My thighs. I recognized the legs as mine. I recognized the hands as yours.
They traveled from my thighs upwards to my stomach and chest. They pulled the breath from my lungs. I looked back at your face. You laughed. I hated your laugh. It burst from your chest—too loud, too sudden. It was deeper than how you spoke as if it came from somewhere else entirely. Somewhere hidden.
“You love me,” you said.
Your hands on a back—my back.
My back pressed into the bed.
An unbelievable weight pinning me down. My hand grasping at the wooden headboard. All I could hear were the squeaks and creaks of the bed. All other sounds slipped away as I stared past your hunched body and up at the blank, white ceiling. I wanted to imagine it was someone, somewhere else making the noise. I wanted to imagine it was someone else’s hands. Someone else’s hands on your hands. Someone else’s hands clenching the sheets. I watched you on top of someone else. She looked like me. I imagined she didn’t. She smiled—she must have. I wish she didn’t. The bed was a mess of limbs, a disgusting beast with four arms and four legs.
Someone’s legs writhing. Someone’s legs pushing.
Someone’s arms locked around someone’s shoulders.
Someone’s head bent down to growl into someone’s ear.
“You love me,” you said.
You assured me it was okay. You looked at me in a way you had never looked at me before. It was me. It was me you were looking at. I wanted to imagine it was reverence. I wanted to imagine it was awe.
You asked me—I can’t deny that you asked me. You asked a hundred times before that moment. You asked every time you kissed me. You asked every time you corrected my opinion. You asked every time you proved me wrong. Every time you looked at me like I was hurting you. Every time I made a mistake. Every time no one was there for me except you.
“Don’t you love me?”
Of course, I said yes.
I’m running out of ways to forget you.
I put your gifts in a box and stuffed it deep in my closet.
The plastic ring that cost you a quarter. The corsage that cost you more.
Pictures that I used to have framed and hugged to my chest when I missed you.
A hair bow. A necklace. The notes you wrote to me. The promises you made.
Everything tucked away and neatly hidden.
I met other guys. I went to college. I took too many classes. I partied too much. I found a job. I made friends.
My skin burns. My heart stops. My hands sweat. I look into eyes, and I see yours. I listen to voices, and I hear yours. In the darkness, it’s you I feel grabbing my body. It’s your grunts and huffs and puffs. Your lips on my neck. Your weight pinning me down. My back is still pressed into your bed, the wood creaking with every move.
The hands I feel are your hands.
Years later I saw your dad at a bar. It was the kind of place where feet stick to the vinyl floors, but drinks slide off tables. The neon lights were somehow both blinding and deadly dim. A wispy cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air and burned my eyes. The bartender filled a short glass with ice and syrupy brown liquor, but no matter how cold the drinks were, they still scorched my throat and sat like hot coals in my stomach.
Your dad said I looked good. I cut my hair. He liked it. He offered to buy me a drink. I accepted. His hair was thinner. His gut was bigger. He changed since I last saw him, but he still looked at me like I was Debbie Harry.
He asked how I was doing. I laughed. I laughed like you might have. I wanted him to see how much I’d grown. How happy I was. How much I didn’t need you. I wanted him to go home and think about it. I wanted him to tell you all about it.
“I saw her the other night,” he’ll say over the phone. “She looked good. What happened to her?” After that you’ll think all the way back to high school. Maybe you’ll look at the pictures. You’ll see March 29th and April 19th. You’ll see my braces and your haircut. Maybe you’ll laugh like I try to.
I wonder if you’ll remember the day we broke up by the stream near your house even though there aren’t any pictures. There isn’t much reason to document red eyes and shaking shoulders. Will you remember how we walked all the way out into the woods to cry? The world around us was silent as we sat on the soft grass, staring and waiting. Waiting for someone to talk first. It must have rained the day before because I remember the damp grass gripping at the back of my thighs. I remember studying the dew caught on fallen leaves, a blank connect the dots puzzle—all the answers there if I only took the time to look. Finally, you said something to me. It was my fault. My lack of communication. You quoted a song.
Or maybe it was a book.
Or a movie.
You didn’t use your own words. I wonder if you’ll remember that. I wonder if you’ll remember my smile. How it assured you that you were right. After everything, you were right. I wonder if you’ll remember my hands like I remember yours.
My hands on the sheets. My hands gripping your arms. My hands becoming your hands. Hands on a body. Someone’s body. Who knows whose body? Who cares?
