Your hands falter in the air.

Dangling like stuffed animals
on a child’s mobile, they are
tools the epitome of perfect
if your aim is condescension.

You first reached them out
as if you were going to ask me
for a hug. But you then almost
immediately became aware
that I would not like that right now.

They move once again, both of
those hands of yours.
They hesitate like two dancers
rehearsing perhaps the
most romantic piece
they will ever learn,
overwhelmed by feeling.

You finally touch me.
One hand – smug, by the way, for assuming
it even has the right to do so –
sits down by my lap,
low and close – uncomfortably so,
like an airplane seatbelt.
The other caresses the top of my head,
patronisingly petting me.

You tell me something like:
You know,
you’re very pretty.
I starkly take your hands
and have you unhand me.
I do not look into your face
while I try to remain civil,
placing those two same hands
back where they belong –
in your lap.

I want to tell you that
that would be all well and good,
except for the fact that
I do not need your charity.