surrealism at its most tangible
Sep. 16th, 2001 04:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aruanThat's the thing about running into old friends or colleagues (if you can apply that term to middle school acquaintances) after not having seen them for a few years: it's almost like you've stepped into the Twilight Zone where they seemingly just went from gawky little boy to grown legal adult. You almost need to touch them to make sure they're real.
Lucky for me, this apparition insisted on holding my hand.
For the entire ride from Stonebrook to the towing lot, he held my left hand with our fingers laced, giving it a gentle squeeze every once in a while along with a glance of reassurance that everything would be fine. I guess he figured I was still stupid from the weed, which had for the record worn off about half an hour ago and all that remained was a heightened fascination with the world around me, which at that point consisted of his strong hand enveloping my own. When had he gotten so big? He was always short, scrawny Billy with the glasses and the quirky demeanor - when had he become this protective, even mature person?
Don't get me wrong, he hadn't become a diametric opposite of who he was - still all about the ladies, eager to please, wisecracking, easily chagrined, good-natured and out to have a good time - but somewhere in there he'd gotten rather very handsome, and with that, he acquired this newfound self-assurance to back up his already manifest tendency to invade the personal space of said women. He knows he's good-looking and knows he can press certain buttons and reap advantages because of that - he so got off on being the protective male while we drove, whispering assurances that everything would be fine, not to worry, that he would stay with me until everything was taken care of, all the while holding my hand. Did I mention that part? Have I mentioned that the right kind of handholding can be incredibly erotic? In any event, it was a very amusing to touch and feel attracted to what amounts to a figment of my imagination.
Lucky for me, this apparition insisted on holding my hand.
For the entire ride from Stonebrook to the towing lot, he held my left hand with our fingers laced, giving it a gentle squeeze every once in a while along with a glance of reassurance that everything would be fine. I guess he figured I was still stupid from the weed, which had for the record worn off about half an hour ago and all that remained was a heightened fascination with the world around me, which at that point consisted of his strong hand enveloping my own. When had he gotten so big? He was always short, scrawny Billy with the glasses and the quirky demeanor - when had he become this protective, even mature person?
Don't get me wrong, he hadn't become a diametric opposite of who he was - still all about the ladies, eager to please, wisecracking, easily chagrined, good-natured and out to have a good time - but somewhere in there he'd gotten rather very handsome, and with that, he acquired this newfound self-assurance to back up his already manifest tendency to invade the personal space of said women. He knows he's good-looking and knows he can press certain buttons and reap advantages because of that - he so got off on being the protective male while we drove, whispering assurances that everything would be fine, not to worry, that he would stay with me until everything was taken care of, all the while holding my hand. Did I mention that part? Have I mentioned that the right kind of handholding can be incredibly erotic? In any event, it was a very amusing to touch and feel attracted to what amounts to a figment of my imagination.
