First Massage

My hands were that of a child fingerpainting across grainy paper aged by life and heartache.
My fingers, pale against his tan, began to swirl in the oil that glistened on his back. I imagined the oily colors of childhood blending freely, but the muscled mounds of his hips were not made of paper. I gazed at the length of him. He was beautiful.  

Soft hums rose from the center of his back as if he were trying to shape words he’d forgotten. Maybe he was trying to tell me I was the first woman’s touch he’d felt since his wife’s death the year before.

She’d been my friend since childhood. I’d watched as he sat at her bedside through all her struggles. He’d held her hand as she ceased.

Tonight I sensed his time of mourning was entering a new chapter. I rubbed my hands across his open palms and remembered my friend. Then my fingers slipped into the dark space between his legs, and he began to move. I thought I’d done something wrong, but he turned to face me and smiled.