Page 6 of Look, Don't Touch

Several beats of silence stretch into several more. “Angry,” he finally admits.

“Why?”

His fingers thrum an irritated beat on the chair. It’s a familiar sound, though his staccato is more forceful than I’m accustomed to.

“Celeste is a gorgeous woman. She’s intelligent and kind and funny. She sees the best in people. She’s driven. She’s everything I should want. Everything I wanted to want, but the thought of allowing her to touch me made my fucking skin crawl.”

My heart squeezes as if my ribs have collapsed, pinning it in place. I understand the yearning, the disgust, and the heartbreak.

“We all have a desire, innate and engraved in our DNA, to seek connection, contact, care. From inside the womb, those bonds are begun, and somewhere along the way, for any multitude of reasons, they can be stunted or severed entirely.” My eyes settle on a crow soaring above the park, not far from my window. I draw a deep breath. “They can also be repaired. There will be scars and damage. If we put in the work, those scars will show our strength and resilience. Is Celeste the reason you’re here?”

“The way you ask questions. It’s unusual.”

“If I ask them differently, will you answer them?”

“It was a lifetime ago. Celeste is happily married with a kid and another on the way.”

“Yet she can still be your reason.”

“She’s not.”

The sky paints us a breathtaking view as pinks, oranges, blues, and purples saturate the chunky clouds. Our time is winding down. There are still a million questions I want to ask. I settle on one and not the one he expects.

“Do you remember a time when you received or gave touch that soothed something inside you?”

My office is silent. The stillness is unnatural with the hustle and bustle of the city outside and the two people occupying space inside. It’s also a respite, a break from all the noise in our world. It’s why the room is soundproofed, along with the exit room. People can be whatever they need to be in this space.

Loud. Angry. Sad. Quiet.

I stay completely still, waiting for him to make his move.

The clouds shift past the window. Slowly, the colors drain toward the west.

“Yes.”

Hope warms my chest. At some stage in his life, touch had done what it was meant to do for him.

Before I can ask another question, the rustle of his suit fills the office. “Our time is up.”

“That’s my line.” I look at my watch to find I should have said it five minutes ago.

He retreats. The door handle is bombastic in the quiet. I need something from him before he goes.

“Mr. Judge?” It takes so much restraint not to turn toward him and see if he’s still inside my office. “Are you forgetting something?”

His cleansing breath is the only thing that tells me he’s here.

“I grew up on a farm.”

“That’s cheating,” he protests. I used that same line just an hour ago.

“It is, but you’re paying for my therapeutic prowess, not my backstory.”

“You’re getting mine.”

“Trying to. Little by little. And you’re paying me for it.” I smirk and wish he could see my expression. “Good evening, Mr. Judge. I’ll see you next week?”

“No, you won’t, but I’ll see you. Goodbye, Hailey.” The door closes quietly while my mouth hangs open.

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