The Plan

Old friends. Close friends. Deep friends.

They’re walking along the boardwalk, eating ice cream in cones - the only true way. They talk about the things they always talk about; art and politics and music and people they know and people they wish they knew. They laugh a lot, because it feels so good and they find it so easy. Unfinished sentences and mumbled words carry as much meaning as a library full of libraries. And then a question always prepared but never asked.

“Why don’t you touch people?” she asks him.

“I touch people.” He glances over and back.

“Oh, you’ll shake hands if it’s appropriate. If someone hugs you, you’ll hug them back. But you never initiate it.”

He thinks. He always does.

“I don’t know. It depends on the person, I guess. Different people, different reasons.”

They walk. Ice cream is a wonderful thing, but even the ice cream feels something coming.

“Why don’t you ever touch me? You always tense up when I touch you. Do I smell?” She smiles. So does he. So easy.

He stops walking. Looks over at her.

“Close your eyes,” he says. She looks at him with mock suspicion.

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“Just close your eyes.” She closes her eyes.

The index finger is at her left temple. So soft, but there. Others join it as they move along and through her hair. Over her ear. The thumb barely touches her cheek and suddenly the separate digits are one hand with one purpose. The hand moves along her hair. Cups her head at the nape of her neck. Slides forward along her jawline. The fingers come together at her chin and tell her of love and lust and longing barely restrained. Barely. And then they’re gone.

She opens her eyes. He looks so old.

“That’s why.”

 

 

 

I don’t care what you think - it makes me cry like a baby.

Old friends. Close friends. Deep friends.

They’re walking along the boardwalk, eating ice cream in cones - the only true way. They talk about the things they always talk about; art and politics and music and people they know and people they wish they knew. They laugh a lot, because it feels so good and they find it so easy. Unfinished sentences and mumbled words carry as much meaning as a library full of libraries. And then a question always prepared but never asked.

“Why don’t you touch people?” she asks him.

“I touch people.” He glances over and back.

“Oh, you’ll shake hands if it’s appropriate. If someone hugs you, you’ll hug them back. But you never initiate it.”

He thinks. He always does.

“I don’t know. It depends on the person, I guess. Different people, different reasons.”

They walk. Ice cream is a wonderful thing, but even the ice cream feels something coming.

“Why don’t you ever touch me? You always tense up when I touch you. Do I smell?” She smiles. So does he. So easy.

He stops walking. Looks over at her.

“Close your eyes,” he says. She looks at him with mock suspicion.

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“Just close your eyes.” She closes her eyes.

The index finger is at her left temple. So soft, but there. Others join it as they move along and through her hair. Over her ear. The thumb barely touches her cheek and suddenly the separate digits are one hand with one purpose. The hand moves along her hair. Cups her head at the nape of her neck. Slides forward along her jawline. The fingers come together at her chin and tell her of love and lust and longing barely restrained. Barely. And then they’re gone.

She opens her eyes. He looks so old.

“That’s why.”

 

 

 

I don’t care what you think - it makes me cry like a baby.