My ring slides easily around my finger and automatically I adjust it, turning it back so that the stone faces upward.
I look down at my hands, small but not more so than usual. One ring adorns my hands, my nails are long but not smooth, not pretty. They seem so ungraceful as they push the hair back from my face, or type, or rub a child's back.
He plays with my ring, twisting it around and around, both of us noting the difference in the size of out hands. Calluses scrape softly, a slight swooshing rasp in the twilight. His breath is deep, steady, heavier than mine, irregular and louder, the sound amplified by the exaggeration of his smoking a ciggarette.
I look down at his hands, engulfing mine like they would a child's. They seem to move smoother, more gracefully than mine, but still they are masculine and strong. They are gentle as they brush my face, sure of their welcome in mine.
Mine are pale and softer next to his, but still his are more gentle, cradling mine, sliding the cool metal over my finger, warming it with his fingertips. My nail slides, tickling over his palm, while his thumb rubs circles in the back of my hand. I look up at him, and smile, one hand holding his, one hand running fingertips over the second ring.
My hands are clumsy, unsure, while they cradle a soft downey head, but his are sure, and steady, covering mine, helping me to support with my hands. A tiny hand, fingers that can barely wrap around my pinky, waves in the air, and he slides a finger into it's palm. A ring, on a chain (too small for my fingers now), swings above it. A second tiny hand reaches up and I wrap my fingers around it, softly rubbing. His free hand joins mine, swallowing both of our smaller hands, a rougher backdrop for our smooth palms.
Softer now, after a few years of better care, his fingers lace with mine. Our skin is thinner, and my veins show through, wrinkles and blue lines like a road map there on the once creamy skin of the hand he holds. His skin isn't as wrinkled as mine, still firm and only a little less callused. I squeeze gently, and he squeezes back, just as soft, just as lovingly. Tears stain our hands, one of mine missing a ring that now sits on those once tiny hands we held together.
His hands are still, and cold in mine. Tears wet them, and my fingers rub the moisture away. My nails carefully trace the lines on his palm, gently glide over the now soft fingertips. I press a single kiss into his palm, trying to warm the skin. And then younger hands, as strong as his once were, slide his hand from mine, and lay it gently on his chest. My fingers slide one last time over the back of his hand before I pull away.