wax.hands
We enter the line, his sleeves pushed up to the elbow, cursed sun displaying the good half of a farmer's tan. People stand in front of us whispering hand gestures, settling on their favorite -- a peace sign, devil horns, the snickering middle finger. We look at each other and already know the only thing that will do. The symbol of us as a team, two against the world. Our perpetual way of displaying our unseen mental connection. It will be more uncomfortable than holding a singular gesture, but we know it will be worth it. As we reach the dipping station, we grip our hands together, fingers interlaced a symbol of our souls intertwined.
Our turn is upon us and an attendant rubs gloppy white lotion over our palms, fingers and wrists. The slimy goo settles into every crevice of our joined hands and I reflexively squirm. His free hand, sure and strong, reaches over and rubs my arm, smiling knowingly.
"If you move too much, your final mold will be misshapen," the attendant sneers, "Keep still."
Next our greased digits are guided into colored wax, a promised translucent blue despite the pure darkness that it appears to be. Its warm to the point of being slightly uncomfortable, the Virginia humidity hanging in the air since morning, and I feel my hand get antsy again. Again, he steadies me with his comforting grip and whispers, "Keep still," mockingly. Our hands are guided over and dunked into ice water, an unappealing extreme that physically hurts. The process repeats seven times, hands assaulted by hot wax, tormented by ice water, leading me to cry, "My hand is going to catch a cold!" It makes him laugh and the attendant roll her eyes.
"Bitches don't understand..." I whisper in his ear, and his responding grin warms my heart, his sincere dimples and pure smiling eyes aglow. He wants to squeeze my hand but they are frozen together, locked in place by wax.
We finally reach the part where they cut you loose, and an attendant wriggles a plastic knife beneath the mold, rubbing it along the back of his hand and mine. Quietly we slip our fingers apart and escape the prison of wax. We stretch our fingers, wiggling away the rigor, wiping the sweat and lotion onto summer clothes. The wax hands intertwined are handed to him, and he raises it up to the sun, illuminating its blue sheen.
This stumpy sculpture is the opposite of art, a kids craft from summer camp, but I can't take my eyes off it. We suffered for this and because of it I'll always remember how loved he makes me feel, how our hands together was the only thing that kept me sane through the whole process. We walk off, our prize won, and true to form, our hands find each other's once again.