Both hands. A leg. My cheek on your shoulder. Four points of contact. It seems like a record, a milestone I should mark. I’ve stopped announcing when we reach them, but I notice. Still. I noticed each touch, each tiny fingertip graze.

I close my eyes and relish them. Think about how you smell. How kissing you is soft and sweet and a little awkward. Not practiced and perfect. How my lipgloss sticks our lips together a little, and I don’t want to pull away enough to break the surface tension.

I count as the number of points of contact goes up, hoping eventually I’ll count them down again.

To one.


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