I was watching
Drive last night, and I caught myself staring at Ryan Gosling's hands. For much of the movie, he wore brown leather driving gloves, but there were a few early scenes where he did not. I couldn't take my eyes off of them.
Now in those scenes, there was really no reason for me to focus on his hands. They weren't telling a part of the story, weren't doing anything particularly special. But my mind took me away from the movie and to a scene all my own where his hands were touching me, even just a slight brush against me, and I wanted more.
Then near then end, he gave me exactly what I wanted. In the elevator with a bad man and the woman he loves, his hand reaches for her in a slow and deliberate way. I thought he was going to do the typical body-shield move, saving her from the bad man and sacrificing himself in that tight elevator. But I was wrong. Instead, he pivots and turns to her, moves in and kisses her. Mmm.
That slow movement, that gentle touch, that first kiss full of danger and sweetness. That's what we want. We can skip the rest and replay that scene over and over.
It reminds me of those first few moments with a new guy. My heart speeds up, my cheeks start to grow pink, I get a little nervous. He steps a little closer, whether we're in a bar, at a party, in a drug store. Date, no date, it doesn't matter. He's close, and I'm deciding whether I want him to be closer. Yes. Closer is good.
He leans in to me, sometimes looking into my eyes, sometimes looking down at our shoes. Both are good - both let me take another look at him. He reaches, maybe to grab the Advil on the shelf behind me, maybe to wave to a friend who walked into the party. I watch his hand as it leaves his side and moves right past my face. That's when I know. I know I want that hand to touch me.
Hands. They do it to me every time.
*Quote from Valerie above is in my upcoming book, Spent. Release info coming soon.
