Lights off. I have a companion. We are facing each other, he is stroking my shoulders. Lightly.
He has wonderful hands, strong wrists and fingers. Surgeon hands. He uses them to stroke the small of my back.
My eyes are shut, and he grasps my hand, pulling it between us, until we are palm inside of palm, anterior to posterior. The ceiling of the hands arching, like an old-world cathedral. Marveling. The world spins slightly, as though I'm a little drunk. I'm not thinking about anything but the tactile sensation. The slight dampness between our hands like dew in a hollow because of the contours of our palms.
My eyes snap open, suddenly. Wide and engaging. Courageous and vulnerable; the softest, most subtle elements of happiness.

It's amazing what fingers will do if you cut the connection between the brain to the hands, taking all the little tollbooths out along the way.