Touch
“I put my hand on him. Touching him has always been important to me, it was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches, my fingers against his shoulder, the outsides of our thighs touching as we squeeled together on the bus. I couldn't explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes, I imagine stitching all our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?”