Sally Thorne - Blog Posts

He puts his hand between us on the couch, palm up, and then looks back at the TV.

It’s like he’s put out a dish of seed and is now sitting very still, waiting for the cowardly little chicken to make a move. And it does take me a while. I tentatively pick up his hand and lace his fingers into mine.

For a scary moment he doesn’t react, but as the warmth of his hand begins to glow into my palm, he gives me a deep, delicious squeeze.

The art of holding hands is underrated and it’s embarrassing how much this simple act has me nearly breathless.

The Hating Game by Sally Thorne