“They touch your back as though there’s a handle there, and direct you where they want go. Or they place their hand on top of your head, paternally. Men and their hands. You’ve got to watch them every minute.” Calliope Stephanides, from Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex.

In the mornings before the sun was up, he would come to my room and sit on the bed. With his warm fatherly hands, he would rouse my hair; it was time to wake up. Later in the kitchen, where I would be having my breakfast and talking to DivaMom, he would give her a kiss, a rub on her back and a rub on my head in affection before joining us. This man is my RockerDad.

His grimy hands would always find their way on my face to pinch my cheeks just to spite me. When it would tug a lock of hair/ the sleeves of my shirt, I know he wants something. With his hands too, he’ll irritate my little sister, pointing out her insecurities. These tyrants are my trio of brothers.

The fingers on his hands love to run itself through my then long hair sans flirtation because he had liked it. His hands would gesture animatedly when he is talking excitedly. When I’m talking, it would be on his chin, the rim of his glasses or drumming on the table top as he awaits his turn to talk. He had, a long time ago, patted my head with his brotherly affections. In his fury, he would ball his hands into fists. These hands belong to my friends.

His hands, in their mischief, often play eye tricks on me. Those same hands had also comforted me when I was sad. The same hands have also been on the small of my back as he walked me home. Our right hands often high fived when we accomplished something and the pinkies on our left hand had made promises with each other. These were my first (unrequited) love’s.

When he confused himself with what he had written on the board, he would muse with his hand on his head. Or he would pout his lips and rolls the marker in his hands. At the beginning of the hour, he would fan out his notes with authority with his weathered hands. Those same hands also made cakes and cream puffs. He uses big gestures when he’s intellectually provoking. These are the hands that had educated me over the years.

Clammy hands greeted me when we first met; who knew he was more nervous than I was? In awkwardness, his hands would fidget when he talks. If he’s confident of himself, he would put his hands on my knee when we talked. Lucky for him, it didn’t go anywhere else for I know Silat (sort of). His hands always reach for the bill first and insisted he would settle it; I appreciate the gesture even though I would go dutch. These hands belong to the men I dated.

Here’s what I think: men don’t talk about what their feeling, they let their hands do all the work. Jeffrey Eugenides was right. They have to be watched every minute.