I was sitting on the couch, watching tv when he walked up and stood next to me. Instinctively, I reached out to touch him. Just to place my hand on that spot at the top of his leg, right at the bottom of the back pocket of his blue jeans. Such a normal thing to do with someone you are with. Such an easy gesture. Just a connection of touch to let him know I am right here and I care about him. But, I am not with him and I shouldn't be so comfortable.
Instead, I clasped my hands together to prevent them from wandering off and pulled my knees up to my chest, as though trying to protect my heart. He looks over at me and smiles and then sits on the arm of the couch I am sitting on. Right next to me.
His hand was not suffering from the same turmoil as mine, he puts it on my knee and asks how I am doing. I always answer idiotically because the feel of his hand on my skin takes my words away. He leaves it there just long enough to be considered friendly and not lingering and then he gets up and walks into the other room.
I suppress the urge to follow him, as I have all evening and stay on the couch with my knees pulled up as the warmth from his hand fades from my skin.