Players
The way he stroked my forearm with the rear of his hand, afterwards. That was a true touch, native to his hand, a roominess, a familiarity in taking up a girl’s feet while you’re talking to her, sat together on the couch, a touch that belongs more to the spirit of girlfriend than to his name or to my name. This is how strangers relate when we’re allowed, here’s a gentle touch, here’s us, here. Circumstances scrape around loudly like dragged wooden furniture, but touch, touch is kin, waiting quietly while they pass. A squeeze even. That.
The evergreen human need to caress, the propensity, allowed in like water. We strangers are mature for our age. It’s like, why has no one though of this? Being naked together. We’re naked together! Why has no one thought of this? It’s... just such a good idea!
His warm, contoured chest
my nectarine breasts our confederacy.
Angela Trolove (nō Kotirana, nō Airana ōna tīpuna) is a writer and arts reviewer based in Ōtepoti Dunedin. She writes to figure out what's going on and to pay homage to texture. And she loves the Plain Language movement! This year she's writing a thesis on how being sensible is relative, doing so at Ōtākou Whakaihu Waka. Contact her at angelatrolove.com
