“Hold my heart, lest it breaks. Hold my hand, lest I fall. Hold me close, lest I fear.” – Justin Marks

The art of holding hands is not about technique, temperature, texture, how comfortable it feels, or how often it’s been done. Everyone’s held hands before–with friends, family, lovers, and strangers. The art of holding hands is perfected in moments of mediocrity–clandestine and commonplace moments; moments most unassuming, when no one is looking.

Holding hands is by far one of the most cherished of all shows of affection, in my opinion. There’s something so simple and yet intimate about hands interwoven, fingers locked tightly, palms creating friction and warmth–even during the most coldest, wintriest of days.

On one of my rare Friday nights off, I decided to make a Target run to switch things up and run errands the night before I usually run errands. After making a quick trip through the store for my essentials and heavily clothed in a hasty heap of mismatched cardigan and my favorite blue overcoat, and a freshly scrubbed empty palette of a face, I emptied all my contents onto the conveyor belt, 25 minutes before closing time. For the first time ever, Target was empty. As I stood in line, a couple a few aisles over caught my eye. They were a young Korean-American couple I noticed earlier, making a hurried dash through the store. While flustered and tense earlier, they stood embracing, arms tightly wrapped, bodies molding to each other relentlessly–windbreaker jackets crumpling in the act. I caught a glimpse of the young man’s face facing mine, tilted against the warm curve of her shoulder, several inches below his chin–his eyes were closed tightly. I could see the back of the girl’s head, hair half-pulled in a soft french twist. What caught my eye was the desperation in their embrace–the look of strain and pain put to ease by the warmth of the other’s body. It was evident that they loved each other. But it wasn’t showy or new. It was the kind of love that endured over a substantial period of time–maybe over a year or two. It showed desperation at its most sincere. It was like they needed each other in order to breathe, and one couldn’t exist without the other. I couldn’t help it but my mind wondered over what transpired in the minutes before they hugged. The strain of a fight? The residue of a remark made accidentally by the guy, and the girl mulled over it all afternoon? A traumatic event, or the loss of a loved one that brought them together? A difficult, painful decision they had to make together? Whatever it was, their eyes seemed shell-shocked with a tinge of pain, as the girl stood emptying her basket’s contents onto the belt, while the guy dexterously bagged all the items.

The girl looked familiar–my mom always says that a “familiar face” is an indication of how likable and attractive it is. She was prim and orderly, while the guy was relaxed and easygoing. He was clean-cut and preppy. They made a perfectly well-matched, wholesome couple. As she paid for a few items while he continued bagging, I reverted my attention back to my groceries. However, my eyes cut back to them as they finished loading up their cart and made their way toward the exit, and that’s when it caught my eye. They held hands as he pushed the cart. Their hand-holding lacked the impulsive giddiness of new couples. It wasn’t exciting, passionate, or coy, surrounded by booming music, tinkering glasses, or other people, either. It was just heartfelt and needy, mysteriously locking in trials, pain, and love. Done in private as the two walked out with a cart loaded with their (mostly hers) Target purchases.

I grabbed my groceries and followed further behind them, my eyes straining for a fleeting glimpse. It was delicate, lovely, and sincere. I’m a voyeur and love analyzing couples, wondering how they met, their dynamics, and whether they were still happy. He looked afraid of losing her, and she looked deeply reassured next to him. As they walked out, hand-in-hand, it look as if she’d float away into the dark night sky, if he let go, and so he didn’t. And she walked beside him, clutching his hand. Neither of them spoke.