Hands off

It begun with a handshake. Over the table the pulse of his fingertips touched the pulse of her wrist and the beats coincided, the warm blood lifted the veins towards each other as if the bodies collided. Afterwards the moment didn't exist, as if the touch was like no other touch, the pulse like no other heartbeat. They sat down opposite each other and wore the masks required inn offices, in hallways of grey and suits and reason over emotions. He decided as always to let go of questioning what his body did, it was always a riddle to him anyway, and focus on what his brain brought to his lips, the words of form and etiquette. His fingertips burned against the paper he held, the piece of paper she gave him just a second ago and his eyes focused on the letters, demanding the body to take away this feeling of a moment he had to decide had not existed anyway. She smiled, and he knew she hadn't noticed. The pulse had been inside his head, or more accurately, in his fingertips. He talked. He had already been talking for a while he realised. And he praised his ability to function disconnected from himself. Years of bureaucracy had taught him the words to say, the attitude to convey in any situation that challenged his judgement. He had asked a question and she embarked on answering, her soft voice floating between him and her and the walls and the third person he almost forgot was there. What was his name? He quietly rubbed his fingertips against the wood of the desk and suddenly realised the lines in the oak and the rounded figures his coffee cups had made. She stopped talking and his fingers wandered back to the paper and his lips read what they pointed at and he smiled as his question faded out. He noticed that the second his eyes left her face he forgot what she looked like and the moment she stopped talking he forgot what she said. If he had felt it was appropriate he would excuse himself and leave, say something about toilet or coffee or anything that would relate vaguely to a decent excuse. But he kept his seat. What was so different about this handshake he thought, and the answer of course was nothing. The amount of hands he's been shaking over the years, he always pulsated then too. He was always alive and the veins and heart would to their job as blood pumping vehicle then too, right. Nothing was different, I had a pulse then, I have a pulse now he thought, and questions her again, gaining more confidence. The moment was passing he knew. He was regaining control again. He could hear himself now, and he heard himself saying: "So how do you feel about working long hours?" and she answered smiling: "I have the energy to work long hours as long as I love my work, and I would love to work here". His colleague, who he now remembered the name of, said something important about the pay and the opportunities of promotion and the interview was over. They shook hands and he gave her his hand again. This time he did not take her whole hand, did not let his fingers touch her pulse, instead he wrapped his fingers around the top of her hand. And was shocked to find that her whole hand pulsated in the same way his own blood flooded to his palm. He let go as quick as possible and sat down. The dizziness overwhelmed him and his anger with the weaknesses of his body rose. The colleague looked quizzically at him when she had left.

He was quite rational in his arguments. The fact that she was young and lacked authority. She could not be hired. Naturally. The two men nodded with mutual understanding in the room of grey and routine. As he left to go home that day a chill of relief came over him. He rode that storm off pretty well. He was proud of himself; he had let nothing get in the way of his ability to control a situation. He could continue business as usually, and soon, very soon, his blood would stop feeling so warm and the memoirs of a raising vein would disappear again, he thought with pride.