His hands grasped the rope tightly, pulling. The knuckles protruded from the pale, stretched skin and his fingers were starting to turn red. Veins popped up on the backs of his hands, as he tightened his grip. He fought the weight on the other end of the rope and the veins bulged, travelling up his arm. His hands were wide and strong, but gentle. They did not have the plumpness of a childs nor the elegance of a womans hand but they were desirable. The kind of hand you wanted to hold. A hand that would hold you. A warm hand.
His nail beds turned white around his short nails, the tips of his finger carved with small cracks, inconsistent with the smooth skin that stretched over the rest of his hand. Each crack was black with impermeable dirt from years of working tediously. The rope started to move. He used the new slack to quickly, pefectly, loop it around itself and tie a strong knot. The rope was forced to hold itself and he let go. His hands relaxed and returned to their natural olive colour.
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