HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT TOUCH

I go down clutching my legs to reach out and tide up my shoe laze. What can I say, 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 where my drink was held as witness. It was a public event, still, you have decided there and then, to show me your intentions with a display of public 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 had to pretend he was not there. I shrunk and blushed at the unexpected act. I froze as I felt the shivers down my spine. I want to be my best self and respond with equal dare, but, this is not one of those occasions in which I rise gracefully, leveling with the circumstances. I’m in the loosing side, I am clueless, I cannot read the signs. As I calibrate with reality, something just doesn’t feel right. But, for now, I take this as a little victory within my, still, relatively inexperienced spectrum of conquests. There is so much to learn, and as an eager student, 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 the, 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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