There's a Beatles Song About This.

I once knew a boy that was very good at holding hands.

He wasn't much of a conversationalist. He had more pride than virtue and you could see his ego through his teeth when he smiled.

This friend of mine liked to talk about himself. He spoke at length about things he'd done, what he wanted to do, and who he'd dated -- oh, names and durations and problems, this and that, ad nauseum. Thirty minutes into our first date, I was stuffing my mouth desperately with orange chicken to stop the flow of vapid "Oh yeah(s)?" and "Oh(s)" and "Cool(s)."

But then we left. We walked through the cold, still parts of North Campus. The gardens. The fountain. We sat beneath the stars and in a quiet moment he took my hand.

Wow.

It's difficult to explain what that was like. Warm, I guess, from my fingers to my feet. I didn't gasp or jump, though it surprised me. I don't think I even looked up. For that moment, when we weren't talking or even looking at each other, I was happy. I thought, I could love this person. Maybe he could love me. It could work.

It couldn't, though. I knew that ten minutes later when we left for home and he opened his mouth again. We got together twice more and gave it a brave attempt, but no cleverness or nice hair or mix CD could change the fact that we were a poor match.

So that's that. It's done, and I'm not upset about it. Rather than the cliche broken heart, my almost-beau has left me with a puzzle. What is it in my nature that so desires that particular sort of attention? What's so great about holding hands? My little sisters hold my hands; I can hold my own hand; a strangers could do it as well as any friend. What about that simple contact is so crucial that for its sake I would ignore a lack of chemistry, intellectual compatibility, wit? If Mr. Mouth had held my hand more and said less on our third date, we'd very likely have had a fourth. Maybe a fifth. Maybe we'd have gone on like that, muddling through stilted conversations and treasuring our silent handholding and the other purely physical (but not romantic) aspects of one another's company. Maybe we'd have dated and people would've asked me what I liked about my boyfriend, and I'd have floundered and come up empty and said, "Oh, everything, I guess," and felt false.

Tell me, where's the sense in that?