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He reaches out for her hand across the table, convinced that if he could only feel her beneath his palm, he would begin to believe that it was over. His thumb grazes the now-empty finger, the mark of sunburn the only proof that it had been worn for years before tonight. Her other hand moves to cover his, and he notices them for the first time: scarlet red polish on her fingernails. He had never liked the shade -- it was too much, too loud. But she wears red on her hands more often now. A newfound freedom does that to you. He curls his fingers over her palm, opting to grab it a little too tightly. He has ran out of words. She has grown tired of hearing them. There is nothing left to do but to hold on to her cold, clammy, ringless hand. She sighs and slowly pats his hand, as if it were a comfort.
It is no such thing, of course.
He shakes his head. He grips her hand again. He grips it harder this time, fingernails breaking skin. Now from his eye to the top of her hand, a tear.
As if burned, she tugs and quietly takes back her hand. He grabs her again, desperately bringing her hand to his lips as if kissing it over and over would make up for all the hurt. She withdraws it as if from flames, pained and disgusted. She stands and leaves. He reaches out for her one last time.
