Watch Your Hands, Buddy

by Rajul Punjabi

Something odd happened last week when I went out with the Euro-cutie I met at speed dating.

Let me paint a picture for you. It was one of those tropical June nights I lust for – warm enough to sashay around in a skimpy American Apparel dress (not the skin tight tube ones though; that’s too much exposure for a first date). We’d been sitting at this Jazz lounge just a few blocks from my apartment since 8 pm, and at 11, our lively conversation still hadn’t died down. I had to call it a night though because of an impending deadline so we split the check and headed out.

Steady despite the three martinis I slurped down, I ambled along the sidewalk with him for a few seconds, aimlessly staring into the velvety, starless (good ol’ city pollution) sky. Then I felt something touch my hand. Turns out, he had grabbed it. And was now holding it, pulling me just a little closer in the process.

“So you’re into the whole hand holding thing?” I asked, smirking a bit.

“I don’t know. But it’s kind of nice, don’t you think?” He grinned, his accent in full gear. Any type of British accent usually makes me nauseous (sorry, 007), but it really wasn’t so bad tonight.