Work In Progress

It was his handwriting that she noticed first.

She watched him that first day in class as he took down the lecturers notes that were handwritten the front wall of the theatre. He was right handed, with short, unbitten nails. He had a slightly awkward way of holding his pen, his thumb rested uncomfortably behind his four fingers and his knuckles whitened as he tightly clasped the pen. These were all the details she noticed after she saw his handwriting.

Firstly he only wrote in black, something she found unusual. But what stood out the most to her was his neatness. Every letter was given equal space and written with an unplanned perfection. He wrote straight up with no slanting or cursive letters; almost as if his words were being printed. The hand had always been her favourite part of the body. It always fascinated her how each individual hand possessed the ability to create its own font. It was his cohesiveness that drew her in.  In him she saw her opposite. His appearance was slightly dishevelled, especially when compared to the tidiness of his work. He wore his jeans a little too tight, his shirt little big and his hair was a little too long. Yet somehow he managed to look endearing to her critical eye. Every time he began a new line a strand of dark brown hair would fall over his eyes, the remnants of a long neglected fringe. He would then roughly scrape it back with his free hand without missing a beat of furious writing.

His appearance was perfectly imperfect and his handwriting was perfectly perfect.

To her, his handwriting symbolised an inner tidiness that his physical appearance hid. He was the type of guy who had his life in order, unlike her who was the complete opposite. It was of utmost importance to her that her physical appearance was perfect.  Not one lose strand of hair or thread could be found out of place. Everything within her control, had to be perfect. Unfortunately though, this did not include her handwriting. For starters, she was left handed, so from the beginning she was cursed to a lifetime of backwards letters and ink stained hands.

She remembers when she was ten years old and she tried to force her limbs to focus their strength to the ‘right’ side. So, when she wrote using her left hand she would clutch a shard of broken glass between her hand and the pen. She wanted her body to associate writing with the left hand with pain. She would write like this until her blood mixed with the ink and she could no longer read her writing. It didn’t work. Now all she has is a scarred palm for her efforts. He had no scars on his hands. His hands were beautiful. He was perfect.

It was his handwriting that she noticed first.

*This is the opening draft for a short I am working on*


4 thoughts on “Work In Progress

  1. Love the first two paragraphs and how you’ve written about his hands. I enjoy writing (and noticing haha) over specific details on certain aspects of a person aswell. Although, you do fall in love much quicker this way.


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