Wrists (what's under my skin)

Back when I was in elementary school, I remember in either fourth or fifth grade our teachers used to give us ice cubes after we got back in from playing during recess once it was warm enough outside for us to be sweaty and uncomfortable after twenty minutes of hard rambunctious playground activity. They told us if we were hot not to rub the ice on our faces (or put them down each others’ shirts), but instead to put the ice on our wrists. They told us the skin is thinnest on this part of your body, closest to your veins, and therefore can cool your body down faster. I’m sure there is some sort of actual science to explain this properly, but since it is not the main point of this story, I will not look into any further at this point in time.

I say all that because I think that distant memory may have been what inspired me to try something new with my boyfriend about a week ago. We were hanging out in his room being all cuddly and adorable (my roommate calls it “canoodling”) when, on a whim, I took his hand and lightly kissed him on the wrist. It came as a bit of a surprise to both of us, but he didn’t seem to mind, so we just went on about our business as usual.

Fast forward a day or so, when, in a similar situation, Thomas (that’s my boyfriend, for those of you following along at home) did the same to me. And just like with the ice cubes, it was like I could feel his love, the warmth of his kiss spread through my whole body.
There’s something vulnerable about wrists, like they are an easy access point to what you keep under your skin. I can look at my own and see my veins clearly spiderwebbing their way underneath the surface, only the thinnest layer of skin separating them from the outside world. Thomas has the rough hands of a man who works hard for a living, but his wrists are still soft to the touch, receptive to contact. It’s like no matter how hard we have to be on the outside, regardless of how many callouses of circumstance we have to bear, there is still a tiny bit of us that remains susceptible to tenderness, that serves as an invitation as if to say “there is more underneath. Come, take a look.” I like that I can feel his pulse with only the lightest touch. That we can kiss the thinnest, most vulnerable parts of each other and spread warmth instead of ice.

I think love is at least a little bit about vulnerability, about letting another person get as close to you as the blood in your veins. Thomas loves me in ways I did not even know were possible, and it’s a breathtaking feeling of joy and wonder to know that I can trust him with my entire being, that I can share all of myself with him with no fear of pain or misuse of that trust. I want to share every part of my life with him with the same tenderness and vulnerability as a kiss on the wrist.