Touch

Jason Rhoades

It’s dark. He lays alone in bed, wide awake, staring at the empty ceiling above him. His chest tightens as it breaks out in gooseflesh. He sighs, wanting to feel warm. But not the warmth of a blanket, the warmth of another is what he desires. To feel ones arms lay across his bare chest, to have the pressure of a cheek lying on his shoulder exhaling warm air on his neck. He longed for that feeling he once had. Sighing again, his eyes flash to the clock on the wall, 2:09. He missed her touch, her warmth, her breath. She had left him and he hadn’t stopped loving her, and now he lies wanting to feel her against him again, to feel together, needed, and even loved. He turns away from the ceiling and his desires, but to no avail. Missing the color of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, the softness of her hair, the feeling of her and him, he runs away without running. The scar on his wrist begins to ache with a dull throbbing pain. Staring at it he remembers the day he got it.

It was a cold day, but he was prepared. He had his boots and long wool coat hung by the door so he wouldn’t forget them when he left. Staring at his book over the bowl of soggy cereal, reading but not reading, he looks at his watch. His time had come. Snapping his book closed, he put the remains of his uneaten breakfast in the sink and headed for the door. Today was a special day, a day he would remember for the rest of his life, but he did not know it yet. He fumbles with his keys in the cold January blizzard. The clicking of the lock is a sound of relief that means his hand may go in their gloves to be warm. Turning away from his home, he glides carefully down the street. Snow blows around him, some coming to rest in his curly hair, making him look like a cake with vanilla icing. The wind bites at his face and cuts through his coat, chilling even his soul. He hugs himself in attempt to block the winds, with little result.

January blizzards were powerful machines of wind, snow and the color of white. He knew this so the bright red he saw across the way caught his attention. A flowing fire engine head of hair gracefully moved down the street on the other side of the street. His breath hitched, and his eyebrows rose. He had to know who was behind that magnificent hair. Looking back, he had made his decision in an instant. When he saw the roads were clear, he leapt over the snowdrift separating him from the road. He crossed quickly, leaping over the other boundary when he reached it. Upon landing his feet slid against the icy cement sending him into a fence. Recovering quickly he ran after her, not noticing the blood dripping from the cut on his wrist.

He shivered, rubbing his wrist as it throbbed dully. How he longed for that day again, that cold January when he first saw her. Turning over his eyes flash to her coat hung on the wall, the coat she wore on that day, the coat she left here when she left him and he didn’t stop her. Her coat was white with black stitching, wool, like his. Her hair was the only thing keeping her from disappearing in the storm. He chased her, not knowing why, but knowing at the same time. When she entered a coffee shop he silently celebrated. He walked toward it, regaining his composure. Upon entering he had no sight of her at first. But when the cashier called for the next person in line he looked toward the counter. There she was, apron on with her gorgeous red hair tied behind her, standing behind the register. His palms grew clammy in the warmth of his gloves. He walked forward to the line planning what he would say. His mind raced with questions and thoughts that he couldn’t use. By the time it was his turn to order he hadn’t even thought of the coffee he was going to get.

She greeted him with a voice that sent a familiar warm feeling through his body. Looking up at her and seeing her blue eyes made him forget everything he was going to say. He fumbled with words, hastily ordering coffee he hated and looking away to regain his composure. She smiled at him releasing a small giggle causing him to look up again. It was then he knew. Knew what? He thought helplessly staring at her coat. He didn’t know then and he didn’t know now, but he knew. His work was sloppy, and his sentences unfinished. No matter his task, his mind wandered to the girl with red hair. He began to become a regular at the coffee shop, and every day was more or less a repeat of the first day. Every day he couldn’t ask her name, or order coffee, and every day she would smile and giggle at him. After a month of visits and coffee and fumbled words and beautiful smiles, he got her name.

It was his birthday, and he was out. The bar three blocks from his home was his place. His friends and coworkers were all around him clinking glasses and laughing loudly. It was here he learned her name. It was loud and he was too, but when she stepped through the door he fell silent. She walked to the bar alone and took a seat, again alone. After a few minutes of thinking he did. He walked over to her. She saw him coming and smiled at him. It was then he learned her name. Remembering the sound of her name made him feel warm again. A smile cracked on his lips for the first time in days. It was his smile that got her to be his.
April. He walks down toward the coffee shop with her, a new routine. Smiling and laughing and walking, this was his favorite part of every day. As the rain beats against his umbrella on this particular day he tells a joke she would like. Her laugh warms him, bringing a smile to his lips, and her lips to his. Touching his lips he remembers the way they felt. Soft and smooth and perfect. Those lips were the only lips he wanted to kiss. They were perfect. August. A show she wanted to see came to town, so as a birthday surprise he bought her tickets to it. They spent the day in bed after he gave them to her. He remembers her body pressed up against his, moving in synchronization feeling each other.

November. The first fight. He had been offered a job in a town in the next state. A seen hour drive to get there. He wanted it. She wanted him.
February. She didn’t buy him a birthday gift, he hasn’t seen her for four months. He loves but is not himself. She is angry.
April. Her first visit. The second fight. She leaves, he cries.
July. She comes for the last time.
As the sun rises, he lets the warmth of it wash over him. She is gone but he is not. He rises from his bed, going forward, loving but unloved.