Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #8

Who said anything about touchy-feely?

He awoke one morning to the realization that she hadn't touched him in a long time. She'd always been the one to touch a shoulder or brush the stray bit of hair that wanted to linger out of place over his forehead. Before breakfast that realization transformed into a thought, one that he carried for several days before bringing it up during the familiar tension that seemed to have become their evening routine.

"I realized something the other day," he said. He knew that this might go a couple of ways: She'd poo-poo the idea and they'd continue on, or the announcement would lead to something more than just tense. Recently, or at least as recently as he could remember, they were each ensconced in their respective singularities, and even the most trite of comments was dangerous. She had once remarked that she thought he needed new shoes, and he'd shouted himself nearly hoarse saying that he certainly did not need her to select his wardrobe. He'd sheepishly told Phil about that one. "Really, Chris?" Phil had said. "She said something about your shoes, and you started toward the deep end?"

To her credit, Chris thought now--and he always gave her credit for many things--she set aside her book of poetry and turned the face of her attention to him. "What did you realize?" She sounded neither uninterested nor perturbed.

"Well, I woke up one morning, and I realized you hadn't touched me in a long time."

"Touched you?"

"Yeah. Simple touches. I always counted on you for them. Just little taps to let me know you were around, maybe even thinking of me."

He thought he saw her hand twitch toward her book, but he could not be sure. She said, "I did that?"

He nodded at her false question, but he also let it fade. "Yes. It was always nice."

"Oh." She seemed to think about it, and he wondered if she was decided whether to stay reasonable or become defensive. "I didn't know I had stopped."

So, he saw, she had known that she "did that." He listened to the traffic passing by in front of the house but refused to let the noise come between them. "I just wanted to let you know that I thought it was nice. I liked it."

She didn't hesitate this time. "But you have to know that you're not exactly touchy-feely, right? There were times I wanted to be touched, but you never seemed to understand that. Maybe I got tired of things being so one-sided."

"Who said anything about touchy-feely? That's not where I was going. I simply wanted to share that realization with you. We can still talk, right? I'm not trying to fight." He didn't like how they were sitting there and simply looking at each other. There was something between them now--not the sound of traffic, but something he couldn't yet identify. He wondered what had happened, how so many good things could vanish so quickly, so quietly. "What are you reading" he asked. She seemed relieved to have his permission to return to the book, which she grasped and opened.

"Emily Dickinson," she said.

"Short poems, right?"

"Mostly, yes."

"Read me one."

"Why?"

"I just want to hear a poem."

"You don't like poetry."

"Maybe I could learn to like it."

She turned her face toward the window, and then to the book. She bit her lower lip. She leafed through some of the pages before stopping. "Here's one," she said.

He watched her read--not listened, watched. For the life of him, he couldn't hear a thing she was saying.