Giving and Receiving: Five Moments in the Day When the Hands Go First and the Eyes Follow

A fifty-thousand-dong note gone limp with sweat, held between two of my fingers and two fingers belonging to someone whose face I have not looked at. The gate of an apartment block, two in the afternoon, the motorbike seat too hot to sit on. I pass the parcel through the bars, the other person passes money out, and I take the change in my left hand while my eyes have already moved on to the next address on the phone screen.

My job is giving and receiving. Three years of delivery work, and every day I pass something from one hand to another forty or fifty times, and most of the time I could not tell you the face at the other end. Not because they are unpleasant, and not quite because I do not care. The hands finish first. The head arrives later.

This piece walks through five exchanges from one day of mine, from the change at the gate to a single thank-you. In each there is something going on underneath the handover, one thing to try for a week, and one way of getting it wrong that I did get wrong. Everything here is only for when the bike is stopped and switched off, or when your feet are on the ground. On the road, eyes and hands belong to the traffic.

I say this first because "hand it over with both hands" sounds like etiquette. This is not about manners the way grandparents taught them, and it is not an instruction to stare into every stranger's eyes or smile at everyone. Some people dislike eye contact, some are worn out after a long day, and forcing them to look only adds a burden. What needs practising is smaller: one second for the head to reach the place where the hands already are. Looking at the hands, at the glass, at the banknote is already being there.

Three exchanges with strangers

The brush of fingers at the apartment gate

That day, behind the row of bars, the customer said "let me get your change" and I said "yes, yes" while my feet were already turning the bike. The note, wet with sweat, was still in my hand, and I stuffed it into my shirt pocket, not even sure whether I had given back the right change.

The easy explanation is hurry: orders piling up, the sun beating down, the next job waiting. I think it goes a little deeper. At that moment the person behind the bars was not a person to me but the end point of a line of text on a screen: a name, a house number, an amount. The banknote passing between us became an object with no origin. What got lost was not politeness. What got lost was the one contact in my day when my hand actually meets another person's hand, and right then I was not there.

The thing to try is small: when your hand and theirs are both holding something, a banknote, a parcel, a bag, let your eyes follow that object all the way, look at the spot where the two hands meet, count one silently, and only then let go. Do it three times a day, not all forty or fifty, because doing it every time turns it into a chore. The first time, one second was longer than I expected, and the customer thought I had miscounted. After about a week, some people find they remember things they never used to: a thin ring, a smear of paint on a thumb, a watch worn crooked. Others forget week after week, and that is all right too.

The next day I ruined it by looking the customer straight in the eye, very deliberately, as if performing. She took half a step back and asked, "Are you okay?" It was tempting because I believed eye contact was what being present meant. But eyes on eyes, forced, makes both people awkward. The right place to look is at the hands, where the handover is happening.

A parcel for an old lady on the third floor

The old lady on the third floor took the parcel in both hands, as if it were something very heavy, when it was only a small box of ginger tea. I was standing at her door, the lift behind me still going ding, ding, one foot already half turned. She held the box, turned it over to look at the back and front, and asked, "Who sent this, dear?"

The obvious reading is that she was slow and I was late. But looking back, that box of tea carried two different weights. To me it was the thirty-eighth parcel of the day, light as all the others. To her it was something that had happened in the middle of an afternoon, because somebody somewhere had thought of her. One box, two people holding it, one feeling nothing and one holding it with both hands. I do not need to slow down to her pace. I only need to know whom the box is heavy for.

What to try: when you hand something over, keep your hand still until the other person has a firm hold, and only then let go. Let go after, not before. The first time it was only a very short beat that felt like standing around for an hour, and the old lady used it to ask two more questions, I answered, and ended up forty seconds late. After a week, some people find they drop things less, or hear "oh, why the rush" less. Others notice nothing except being a little slower on the orders.

I once tried really slowing down for her, speaking slowly and loudly, the way you would to a small child. She gave me a polite smile and a look that said, "Do you think I am deaf?" It seemed like respect for an older person and came out as talking down. Keep the voice ordinary and only slow the hand.

A glass passed across the counter at midday

I tried this one first when I was the one receiving, because receiving is easier, with nobody waiting for me to let go.

Twenty past twelve, a coffee shop with a standing fan whirring away, an iced milk coffee slid across a wet glass counter. I had gotten used to saying "thanks" right as I turned my back, and hearing it fall into the empty air behind me. That thanks was for closing the transaction, like stamping a form, not for sending to anybody.

I assumed it was just hurry and tiredness, saying it for the sake of saying it. But if it were really only hurry I would have dropped the phrase altogether, and I never do, because not saying it feels rude. So underneath there is something else: I wanted to be counted among the polite people without paying the price of stopping for one second to actually say it. The thank-you had become a procedure.

The first time I followed the steps above, I noticed a small gap between my hand touching the glass and my mouth speaking, longer than I expected, and I kept wanting to fill it with one more sentence. After a week, some people find the person behind the counter answers for real, not just a reflexive "sure". Others see nothing different. For me the most visible change was that the barista began to remember I take my coffee with less sugar.

Then there were times I overdid it: several thank-yous, louder, to make up the numbers, and still not looking. "Thanks, thank you, thanks a lot" firing off like a machine pressing a button. It seems like more should mean more sincere, but gratitude is not counted in repetitions. Once, when your hand has a firm grip, is enough.

Two exchanges with people you know

The power bank passed along the pavement

Four in the afternoon, the shade of a tamarind tree falling across motorbikes lined up along the pavement, the delivery riders sitting in a row on a break. My phone was at ten percent. Tín, next to me, rummaged in his pocket and held a power bank out sideways.

— Take it, mine's full.

— Yeah.

— Have you eaten?

— Yeah... no.

I plugged in and bent over the screen, forgetting I had just been rescued. Ten minutes later, when Tín stood up to leave, I realised that "yeah" had nothing in it that looked like thanks.

Between people you know, everyone says closeness means no need for formality. True, but closeness has a price: the handover goes so smoothly it disappears, and I forget that I am being given something. The closeness had turned into not looking. What wears away is the sense of "this belongs to someone else, and they handed it to me."

The thing to try is very short: name what you just received. "That power bank saved me" or "just in time." One sentence, ordinary voice, about three seconds. The first time Tín looked at me and said, "What's wrong with you?" and laughed. After a week, some people find friends tell them things a little more, or that the table at the end of the day has fewer bare "yeahs". Others see no difference, because close friends already understood each other.

There is a mistake in the opposite direction: thanking too formally, as if speaking to a customer. I tried it, and Tín looked at me like a stranger. It was tempting because I thought the more polished the thank-you, the truer it was. With people you know it goes the other way: just add the name of the thing to the usual sentence and keep the usual voice.

The customer's thank-you

— Thank you, dear.

— Oh, it's nothing.

Two lines, one second. The "it's nothing" left my mouth before the thank-you reached my ear.

I used to call that modesty. But modesty would not be in such a hurry. I think the real reason is this: accepting a thank-you means standing still for a second so someone can see you. All day I am used to being a dot on a delivery map, and being seen is strange. So I push the thanks away at once, like returning a gift that is too big to the person who gave it. Receiving, in this sense, is the hardest part of giving and receiving.

What to try: hear the whole thank-you, pause for a beat, then answer "of course" or "take care on the road". Hearing a whole sentence before replying is a cousin of listening without composing a reply, only at the scale of a single line. The first time I felt a little off-balance, like missing a stair, because the familiar "it's nothing" was no longer there to lean on. After a week, some people find the thank-you can land, and they feel comfortable for a while after receiving it. Others feel nothing, and that is not a sign they did it wrong.

I once tried swapping "it's nothing" for "thank you, ma'am", and it became a loop of thank-yous that neither of us would end, two people standing at a doorway thanking each other. It seems polite, but it just pushes the thanks away in a different wrapper. One nod and one "of course" and done. Let the thank-you stay where it landed.

If you try it and it stays the same

Two reasons come up often, and neither is your fault.

The first: that one second makes you feel like you are performing, stiff, awkward, and you give up after three days. That is a very common feeling when you do something your hands normally do on their own. Do not try all five. Pick the one that feels least awkward, usually receiving a drink, and do only that one for a week. One that is real beats five done for show.

The second: your hands have finished long before you remember. Handovers happen too fast for remembering. The fix is not to remember harder but to attach it to a signal that is already there: every banknote that touches your hand is the bell, every ding of a lift is the bell. This is a relative of three seconds of mindfulness in a busy day, except the bell is not one you set yourself but one other people hold out to you.

One more thing, to be fair: some days you are so tired that one more task is too much. On those days skip it, nobody is marking you. If the tiredness and the flatness go on for weeks, tell a trusted friend or someone trained to help, because that is no longer a matter of one second at an apartment gate.

This afternoon at two, at the apartment gate, the banknote is still wet with sweat. I look at the place where two hands meet and count one. The other person's finger has nail polish chipped halfway off.

One. Then I go.