Tuesday, July 31, 2018

manual intimacy

The manicurist holds my hands very gently, and brushes the nails. I have not had my hand held like this, I realize, in quite some time. And the intimacy between us is startling.

I brush a woman’s hand while we are waiting for the light to change at the crosswalk. It is not an abrupt or rude gesture. It is simply a happy accident.

Then, at the concert, it seemed that I was constantly brushing hands with John Yost and Joey. My hands, flailing to express themselves, were touching others, a barrage of accidental brushes.

It is odd to feel an absence in your body. And slight touches of what is absolutely-not the end of what you seek bring to mind this gaping need.

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