Brushed
The day she touched me was the day I started to feel. She brushed by me in the public library. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t turn to look at me. She kept on her way. Her long red hair swaying with each step. Her clothes fit her body perfectly. The 100% cotton held her curves and sweetly hugged her skin. Her perfume left a trail from my arm, where she brushed by me, to behind the book shelves and past old magazine racks. I stood there in a daze, imagining an apology. How she could have...