Page 29 of Look, Don't Touch

He’s so close, I can almost feel the heat from his body. I hear his soft breaths.

An eternity passes in silence.

“Reach your left hand out two inches,” he finally says.

When I do, I feel the back of the chair. He moves away and sits. I walk around my chair and do the same. It takes me a few seconds to ensure I’m not flashing him any of the gargoyles on my thighs that poke their little heads out between my tights and garter.

“You seem quite comfortable in a blindfold.”

He’s doing all this to gain the upper hand. To make himself more comfortable and me more uneasy. He doesn’t know I’m in my element.

“It’s not my first time.”

“Other clients require your blindness?”

“No.”

“Interesting, Doctor.”

Things are about to get interesting.

“Tell me about the first time you wanted someone to touch you.”

“Relentless, aren’t you?”

I don’t bother responding. I relax my wrists on the arms of the chair and wait.

“In a room filled with pretty people in fancy clothes, ten-thousand-dollar plates of food, and all the business leaders and dignitaries New York has to offer, nothing comes close to capturing my attention until I see her from across the room.”

“What is it about her that seized you?”

“She’s unique.”

I wait for him to explain, but of course, he doesn’t. “How so?”

“She’s stunningly gorgeous, but that’s the least interesting thing about her. She carries herself with such regal confidence it commands attention. There’s an innocence in her face but darkness in her eyes. She is deep, and her walls are high. They’re impenetrable and so well hidden most don’t recognize them. I do because they rival even mine.”

That’s saying something. Hope she’s in therapy. If she is, I feel bad for her therapist.

“For the first time, I wanted to grab her by her bare shoulders and demand her secrets. I wanted to dig until I found her center. I wanted to know what shattered her foundation. I wanted to know what makes her tick.”

“Because she’s like you?”

“Because I see her pain, and I want to make it better.”

I wish someone could do the same for him. “What if a person sees your pain and wants to make it better?”

He’s quiet for a while. Then his fingers strum. “There is someone who’s tried to make it better. I wish I could let him.”

“Hotaru,” I guess.

“Yes.” There’s such pain in that one word it makes my nose burn and my eyes water.

“You see her across the room that night. What do you do?”

“I watch her.”

Two people with high walls and loads of trauma between them rarely make a good match. Then again, who could understand you better?

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