Grasps

The tiny scars on her calf were like Braille, and he wondered if they spelled out anything as his hand felt its way, hidden beneath the table. They were two of four, she to his right, her right leg crossed over the left, giving him access to at least a bare ankle. Farther from him, about a curved yard stick to his left, was one friend, and across the table, more than a handshake away, was another. He tried to concentrate on the conversation they were all having, but it was a struggle.

“Did you guys see that Hasidic guy on the dance floor?” one asked, and though he had seen the odd dancer and wanted to respond, his hand was now above the mosquito bumps onto smoother skin. The skin stole his voice.

“Yeah, I saw him. I’ve seen him there before, too. He never drinks, he just loves dancing.” The other had filled the silent space, and he felt less pressured.

When he sensed the waitress behind his right shoulder, he let go of her leg and turned to order. The waitress took everyone’s requests, going clockwise around the table. When she walked back towards the kitchen, his hand found its former place, this time on her knee.

He wondered if he was giving away his hidden action, if his face betrayed him, if his lack of concentration to the group was noticeable. He heard her laugh, and he moved his hand above her knee, his fingers slipping under her denim skirt. The muscle there was soft, and his fingers gave it some extra pressure. When she stopped laughing, he felt a few light kicks to his leg, and then a hand displacing his. She excused herself and got up from the table.

He could feel his face burning and what might have been sweat on his forehead, but he tried to get past it, sipping some of the ice-filled tap water and fiddling with his silverware. He and his friends spoke of sports and related disappointments, until he heard her walking back to the table. Her hand touched his shoulder, and he saw her slip her chair out from the table, sliding it away from him. When she sat down, he didn’t even try to find her ankle. Taking a sip of water, he crossed his own legs and let his hand grasp his sock. Before the food had come, his nails had dug their way through the cotton, finding his own skin, his own muscles, his own protruding bones.