Larry and I are sitting side by side after a lecture and I ask him,
"What was it you were telling me the other day, about the proper
way to shake hands?" A small group of audience members has
gathered at the podium, and the rest of the laughing and chatting
crowd is filtering out the doors at the back of the room.
Larry turns toward me slightly and folds his hands.
They're solid hands, clean-scrubbed, and they remind me of my
grandfather's. Unlike my hands, which fly about and come to rest
periodically, Larry's hands stay calmly in his lap as he talks.
"Shaking hands is one of the basic elements of
being a man," he says.
I nod, thinking that he's the kind of guy you'd want
to talk to anytime, with a mischievous smile that's as disarming as it
is intriguing. He's a strong presence, and I am drawn to the easy
acceptance he exudes.
Larry says, "It's really important for a guy to
have a firm grip. My father, my uncle, everyone, from when I was small
insisted that I shake hands like a man."
I nod and look down at his thighs where his hands
rest. I have to restrain myself from landing one of my hands on that
welcoming thigh that pulls the fabric of his jeans taut. Another
fantasy for my mental files. There's no denying the connection I feel.
I say, "I've learned to protect myself from
overly aggressive male handshakes. Some guys will crush your hand. So
now I just push up hard in their grip."
"You don't shake hands with a woman the way you
shake with a man," he says.
He says, "I've been working with my sons on their
handshakes. It's something that guys have to perfect. It's a matter of
domination, of letting the other guy know who you are, what you're all
about."
He used to play football, a fact that appeals to the
former cheerleader in me. I thought she was gone, left behind by the
business major, working woman, mother of three, but he's resurrected
the spirit of her. How odd at mid-life to feel what I feel.
I ask, "Is this something you practice
regularly?"
"When I was a kid, the first thing I heard when
my uncle visited was, 'Put it there, buddy.' And I did, over and over,
till I got it right."
"I dunno, my family is more into hugging and
kissing hello."
"Trust me. It's a guy thing," he says.
Both of us have had long marriages that have
dissolved.
Larry shifts in his seat and spreads his fingers on
his legs. Except for the buzzing of an overhead fluorescent bulb, the
hall is empty and quiet now. I know it's time to go, but I don't make
a move to leave, and neither does he. I let the sleeve of my shirt
brush against his and find myself smiling. I'm reminded of the time
when I was riding home from work, reading, on the train from Grand
Central. Suddenly a note dropped into my book. "I have to see
you, please call," was printed on lined paper, signed with a
name, Dr. Peter McCall, and hospital phone. As the train pulled out of
the station, I caught a fleeting glimpse of an attractive dark-haired
man standing on the platform. It was such a sweeping gesture that,
once I had checked him out, I did call. We went to dinner and he
reached across the table to me. When his hands covered mine, it was as
though an electrical circuit had been opened. I withdrew. Later, he
touched me again and the same thing happened. I let him run his
fingers over my arms and was not sure what I was feeling, other than
that there was heat coursing through every pore and vein. Overwhelmed,
I left and went home. I saw him one more time and all he talked about
was sex, about how he wanted to give me a bath. That bath idea was
unusual enough that it was easy for me to turn him down, in spite of
that electrical current that was always there, waiting. That incident
remained the closest I came to being with anyone besides my husband
while I was married. All I have to do is engage a man in conversation
to allow reason and conscience to take over. Whatever physical
attraction exists dissipates quickly, for most men bore me.
But Larry doesn't bore me.
Over the past few weeks I've encouraged Larry to talk,
waiting to feel that familiar rush of disappointment. Instead, I felt
the need to listen and smile, the desire to share my own thoughts and
feelings, the pleasure at the growth of a warm knot of happiness in my
stomach.
Later, we pull up to my house.
"Can I walk you to the door?" he asks.
"Sure," I answer, and he leaves the car
running.
When we reach the door, he thanks me for a great
evening. Suddenly, he leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. I want
to shout, wait, it was too fast, do that again! But the moment is
over, and I'm left bowled over, speechless. He wears a big grin, and
so do I.
"Good night," he says.
I put my key in the lock and turn it.
"Hang on a second," I say, facing him.
"Would you show me how you shake hands?"
Immediately, he extends a hand to me and our eyes
connect for a second. His handshake fills me like a hug. Then he lets
go, and I ache at the loss of him.
As I slip inside the door, I know it will always be
this way for us.
