My dad's hugs have gotten warmer, closer. I remember the breakdown almost ten years ago when I accused him of being ashamed of me, disappointed in his son, even in himself for having wasted time, as I thought he was. And I remember the desperate hug we shared in my room. Now he pats my back when we embrace, he holds my shoulders, he rubs my head.
Mary is the softest person to have ever graced human skin.
My crush on Emma died with winter, but last night we had our first instance of contact: a hug when I entered the bar, a pat when I stole a sex-red tape for her, maybe rekindling something in the coldness. She no longer seems so frigid.
Whenever I see Marc, whether we're high or not, he puts his fist up and bends his wrist. We dap.
I'd like to put another here, but I'm realizing how seldom I'm touched.
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