“We’d pass each other on the stairs, me going up, you coming down, and in the space between heartbeats you’d brush my hand or my arm, once or twice even the small of my back as you followed me, and I knew it was intentional because it kept happening. Your touches were tiny, seemingly accidental – sometimes your fingers pressing the tips of mine as you wordlessly passed me a glass or a plate – but they cracked me open, like lightning across the sky.”
