‘Touch’
Touch
We were drinking, tequila, I think.
“Do you miss her?”, he said, a question he wouldn’t have asked five shots ago. He looked towards the guy grilling the steaks, like that might take the edge off his question.
“Maybe,” I said, breaking bits off a soggy beer coaster. Neither of us were looking at each other, now. Men talked like gunfighters before a fight.
“I’m gettin’…,” he said as he stood up, more to himself than to me. He teetered a little, reaching for his wallet, and missing the pocket a few times in the process. The Everly Brothers were singing ‘Cathy’s Clown’ from somewhere over past the bar.
“I miss touching,” I said.
“Huh?” He’d walked a couple of steps, then stopped, wondering if maybe he’d tuned into someone else’s conversation.
“I miss touching.”
I could feel my insides collapsing in, like one of those sinkholes in a highway you see on the news.
He swayed a little, squinting into the smoke and noise. A pool ball cracked over in the far corner, a man’s voice screamed ‘Oh yes!’ and the Everlys sang on,
Don't want your love anymore
Don't want your kisses, that's for sure
He wanted to understand his friend, but this kind of intimacy had never been part of their setup. Tomorrow he’d probably regret it .
“You mean you miss her touchin’ you, or do you miss touchin’ her?”
I already knew the answer before he asked it.
“Yup.”