It took Harding a second to get the joke, but when it sunk in, he laughed. By the voice alone, his neighbor was a younger woman. She sounded nice. Too nice to actually be collecting hands anyway. He didn’t get a very good look at her until she put the box down and turned. Harding saw a very pretty face with soft features and perfect strawberry blonde hair. She looked as kind as she was beautiful.
The last neighbor Harding had was an old man who used to throw out Harding’s fitness magazines because he thought the covers were inappropriate to have around Laurel. When he’d decided to meet the new neighbor, Harding had no expectations. In this moment, he felt lucky. Not just lucky. Blessed.
“A couch?” Harding said. “Say no more! I’ve just been waiting all day long for some furniture to lift.” He smiled back at her. “My name’s Harding Reynolds. I live next door.” He opened his palms to her. “Welcome.” He paused. “Did you know that handshakes originated as a way that people checked each other for weapons? I do open palms instead.” He demonstrated again. “Same meaning. Also polite-looking. My own spin.”
He didn’t mention that a part of why he’d invented this was that Harding didn’t touch strangers. With his gift, that would be rude, which entirely negated the purpose of a handshake in the first place.
Harding gave his neighbor a chance to introduce herself as well. “Is your couch small enough for the elevator, or are we taking the stairs?”