HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT TOUCH

I go down clutching my legs to reach out and tied up my shoe lace. It has been a good night. I met the people I was supposed to meet, saw friends, and yes, you’ve touched my hand. Hidden in plain sight our fingers have teased playfully behind the stem of the glass with my drink held as witness. Though a public event, still, you have decided there and then, to show me your intentions with a display of open affection. As I reached to grab my glass you have mirrored my hand and your fingertips have played with mine. As a default in the trade the bartender well pretended not being there as I shrunk and blushed at the unexpected act. I froze while I felt the shivers down my spine. I wanted to be my best self and respond with equal dare, but, this was not one of those occasions in which I raised gracefully and leveled up with the circumstances. I’m in the losing side, I am clueless, I cannot read the signs. As I calibrate with reality, something just doesn’t feel right. But, for now, I will take this as a little victory within my developing spectrum of conquests. There is so much to learn; me being an eager student, through practice is the only way to advance. I fix my dress’ wrinkles as I stand up, shoes now ready for walking, I resume my pace as I look down at my hand that, still, every now and then, tingles to the memory of this, now part of the past, thrillingly revealing moment at last.

Hidden in plain sight touch. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

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