I sometimes marvel at how smooth her skin is, how warm her cheeks are, how soft her curls are. She's so busy that she rarely has patience for my hand on her arm or my touch on her face; she has to get on to the next thing and the next thing. Her schedule is packed, after all. I'm just a speed bump in her race to world domination.
And then, one night this week, she touches my arm gently, drawing her hand along it like I've done with hers, and looks at me and smiles.
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