I have a hand fetish, plain and simple. It’s not something that really comes up in regular conversation but it’s not something I’ll lie about. As far as fetishes go, I could do a lot worse. And it’s not really a fetish anyway, I think as I watch you tapping away at your laptop, but an appreciation of art. What else can one call such a display?

Ballets are sometimes hailed as masterpieces, with the dancers twirling  across the stage, their graceful movements in perfect time to the music of the orchestra. That’s what watching your hands is like. Your long, slender fingers glide across the keyboard, creating a symphony of their own, the tapping glorious to my ears as word after word spills onto your screen. I imagine a bow in your hand; I’ll bet you look and sound as glorious playing violin.

You ask me a quiet question about a quote from Hamlet, the subject of our essays. I answer quickly, startled at being addressed. You’re making lots of progress with your composition. I, on the other hand, have barely written a paragraph. I briefly wonder what your hand would look like curled around a quill pen before I begin tapping away as well. I’m not nearly as impressive as you. My short, stubby fingers move slowly across the keys, their trek halting and awkward. If your hands make a ballet, then mine make a drunken walk home. I find myself looking back over at your hands, glad of the better view. You’ve stopped typing for a moment to pet your dog, and I marvel at how your narrow fingers look as they curl and uncurl behind its ear. There’s a slight chip in one nail, and a strand of fur catches in it. You frown, pulling it out, muttering about how you’ll have to cut this soon. I don’t mind. Long nails or short, the hand on which they are will remain as lovely as I’ve ever seen. I decide not to participate in anymore study groups with you if I actually have studying to do. I can’t focus on anything but your hands and the thought of how marvelous they would feel on me.