Everybody close to me has different hands. My mom’s hands are like velvet, warm and pretty. And me, my hands are quirky. They don’t follow the typical template. Sisi’s hands are soft and dainty. She doesn’t need to moisturize them. Morgans hands are sweaty— slip out of your grip. And dad, who is the oldest, has hands like baseball gloves.

But my boyfriend’s hands, my boyfriend’s hands, like worn velcro, like worn leather layed all smooth and dry because he worked with them all day, warm to wrap your hand in when he is holding you, holding you and you feel safe, is the warm smell of apple cider on a crisp, cold day, is the smell when he covers you up with his jacket in the cold, and you huddle close to him, the old truck turning on and country music playing. The truck, the music, and my boyfriend’s hands that smell like apple cider.