Wait Until You See His Hands
By: Jessika Lakin
Tags: Relationships, Sex, Self, Fiction, Dating

“You’ll enjoy Shawn. That is, I know I would enjoy him if given a chance.” Saffron takes a sip from her cosmo at the main bar inside of Z’Tejas on 6th Street. “He’s so tall and his hands? Wait until you see his hands.”

Saffron is twenty-four years my senior. She is the same age as my mom, but their age is the only thing they share in common. Okay, that may be somewhat of a fabrication.

Perhaps Saffron’s first twenty years of life bore a resemblance to my mom’s: firstborn, consistent student, high school graduate, and determined to live her life alongside a devoted husband and future politician. Then Jule discovered LSD and free love.

My mom may have enjoyed a romance or two with guys from her hometown’s Air Force base. Still, Saffron felt it her personal mission to illuminate scores of men — if not hundreds — throughout the 1960s and early 70s on the human body’s pleasures.

Along her travels, she collected somewhat infamous drug-dealer partners who fathered her children before serving their respective prison sentences. To this day, I’m convinced she purchased her palatial home in Central Austin with funds from one or both of her baby daddies’ drug exploits — that and stock in Whole Foods.

“Okay, here he is.” Saffron rises out of her barstool to greet Shawn. She is petite and thin to the point of looking fragile. Her Scandinavian heritage by way of Minnesota, however, lends her Mother-Earth power and strength. She gives him a mighty hug. He towers over her and catches my eye as I move off the stool.

“Jess, this is Shawn. Shawn. This is Jessika. She’s the lovely mother to twin daughters. Shawn has a daughter too. How old is she now?”

“Fourteen.” Our male companion stands six foot three and shakes my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Saffie has told me a lot about you. She wasn’t lying when she said you were cute.”

Shawn’s lanky but not too skinny. He wears a full head of brown hair, which is beginning to grey at his temples. His smile lights up the room while his West Texas accent warms the soul. He’s lived in Austin for nearly twenty years — like Saffron — after moving here from Midland.

“How’s Rodrigo doing?” Shawn asks Saffron. “Staying out of trouble?”

My girlfriend rolls her eyes. “You know how he is. Gets caught for smoking weed, swears he’ll stop and focus more on school. Lasts for all three days, then he’s right back at it.”

The last of her three sons, Rodrigo, spends his time in and out of trouble for toking up. I love my friend to pieces, but I can’t help but wonder how she can expect behavior from him she doesn’t demonstrate.

She keeps a steady reserve of weed flowing into her home and lights up at least twice a day. At what point does doing drugs become less about expanding one’s mind than limiting it?

“Jess, Shawn’s daughter is a straight-A student. He’s doing such a great job of raising her.”

“Credit goes to her mom,” he says. He looks at Saffron long enough to acknowledge her question, then immediately shifts his attention to me where it lingers.

“She’s a good mom, that’s true, but your involvement makes a difference too. Shall we get a table?”

“Yes, let's,” I say.

Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting down and enjoying our second round of drinks with seared ahi tuna in a plum sauce and a queso appetizer.

Saffron is right about Shawn’s hands. It’s hard to miss them as he wraps them around his beer mug or dips them into a basket for tortilla chips.

They’re calloused from his carpentry work and sexy as hell, but do I want to date another carpenter? Besides, if he’s so wonderful — which Saffron has mentioned no less than three times since picking her up at her house earlier — then why doesn’t she date him?

“Now, Shawn, when can I have you back over to my house to fix my sauna?” Saffron practically bats her eyes at him as if sensing my hesitation about dating someone professionally resembling my ex-husband.

“Next week could work. What all do you need fixin’?”

“Not sure, the heating element? It could be the sensor, too, though.”

“You might want to call the manufacturer. I’m not sure what I can do outside of diagnosing the problem.”

“I could do that, but then I’d have to pay a lot more than I want to spend. Besides, I’d miss the pleasure of your company.”

Good grief.

Shawn seems tuned into my annoyance. “No problem, Saffie. I’ll text you tomorrow, and we can figure out a time. Now Jess. I hear you used to perform sketch comedy.”

He lays his hand on top of mine and gives it a gentle squeeze. His long, thick fingers linger for just a moment. I imagine them moving along other parts of my body, feeling empowered from my sex coaching sessions.

“What all have you heard?” I ask.

“I told him how you and Neil used to be part of a performing arts troupe,” Saffron says.

Ugh. This is one story I’m ready to bury in my distant past, but Shawn insists. “Oh, you were in an actual troupe. Was it as exciting as it sounds?”

“Um, no. It was loads more work than you can imagine for minimal reward outside of the satisfaction of making a few dozen people laugh.”

“Jess had this one sketch where she came out on stage in a pink housecoat, crying about her boyfriend not calling.”

“Pity Party.” I wink at Shawn, whose dimples deepen as he smiles.

“That’s right, Pity Party. I loved that piece.”

“It was a favorite among the women in the audience,” I say.

“What was it about?” Shawn asks.

“My ex-husband and I had a bit of a rocky start.”

“Like a lot of new lovers at first,” Saffron says, nodding.

I take a long sip from my cranberry and vodka. “Fair enough, but my then-boyfriend had gone to Holland with some troupe members for a thirty-day business training and didn’t call — once. I remained home in Houston with the other half of our cast, who showed up all out of sorts one night for rehearsal. I came up with the idea of spending half an hour or so journaling all of our considerations on paper. The idea for Pity Party was born that night.”

“Show him how it goes!”

I give Saffron a penetrating stare before acquiescing. “Fine.” I bring my napkin up to my nose and exaggerate blowing into it before sniffling.

Shawn stares at me with eyes wide open. I sniffle again, then run my arm up along the base of my nose as if wiping away additional mucus. I choke up a little. “He hasn’t caalllled. It’s been three long weeks, and he hasn’t caalllled once. WE’RE MEANT TO BE TOGETHER FOREVER. Whyyyy can’t he see that?”

My friends sit mesmerized. “I mean, I’ve done everything right. I’ve been attentive and done everything he’s asked, you know, in bed and everything, including that one time with that Claudia girl. But he hasn’t caalllled. I’m going to DIE ALL ALONE BECAUSE NOBODY LOVES ME!”

People are staring at us from other tables as I blow my nose into my napkin. I sniffle one more time before breaking character. Shawn and Saffron clap thunderously. “Bravo!”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” I say in my best Elvis impersonation.

“You are adorable,” Shawn says. There’s something genuine about him. He’s a guy, and he’s clearly interested like Jay or Peter.

But there’s something different about him. I’m trying to figure it out when it dawns on me: he’s sexy and interested, but he’s not a player!

We may or may not have a one-night meeting of the minds. I’m going to be okay, though, no matter how it turns out because what this man potentially lacks in the income department, he more than makes up in the human-decency department.

Shawn reaches for my hand and gives it another squeeze conveying his interest as well as his thoughtfulness. It’s too early to know how the evening will go, but something tells me Saffron’s made the right call connecting us tonight.