|
|
|
A Spiritually Enlightening Online Magazine. September's Theme: "Contact" I have avoided physical contact with others for as long as I can remember. Skin on skin is the worst, but even through fabric it can happen. I love winter — the bulky sweaters, coats and mittens dull the sensation enough to make contact tolerable. Summer, on the other hand, is torture. Needless to say, I spend a lot of time by myself.
It started at birth. I was an inconsolable infant. Coddling, rocking and all the things mothers do to quiet their screaming babes only made me cry more. As a child, tantrums were frequent. The littlest contact would send me into a screaming fit. Independent living skills came quickly — the faster I could learn to care for myself, the less my parents would have to handle me. Hugs were a big no-no. It was heart-wrenching to see the grief in my mother's eyes — all the dreams she'd had of motherhood had flown out the window with me. It was worse when my sister was born, torturous to watch that new baby receive all the love I'd been denied.
Public school was a nightmare. Try navigating crowded hallways or participating in gym class without being touched. Other children learned to leave me alone at first, but the older we got, the more they teased me for my differences. Countless shrinks, doctors and occupational therapists evaluated me throughout my childhood, all of them coming up with various reasons for my aversion to touch and none of them coming up with a solution. I was finally pulled from public school, forcing my mother to quit her job in order to homeschool me. Online school was a godsend, both pre- and post-graduation. I moved out of my parents' house as soon as I turned 18, relishing in the option of online college courses and welcoming the solitude of living alone.
So why do I disdain physical touch? You might not believe me, but since this is my story, I will tell you anyway. Sensory Processing Disorder became the official answer, but is far from the truth. My sensitivity has nothing to do with any medical or mental health diagnosis that I'm aware of. It starts with a jolt, a sometimes painful shock, and then what feels like a powerful electric current runs from the point of touch into my body and throughout my entire being. With enough skin on skin contact, it can feel like I'm on fire. And then suddenly I'm in their head. I hear their thoughts, their innermost desires, their most precious and guarded secrets. I feel their emotions as though they were my own. I sometimes see their past, other times their future. The more skin, the worse it is. A hug is worse than a handshake, but even a handshake can send me reeling.
Animal touch is different, causing more of a gentle buzzing, sometimes coupled with images and feelings here and there, but softer, less shocking, and laced with a stronger level of instinct. Animals think and feel, but they think and feel differently than humans. I would say they think and feel better than humans, but I can't tell you exactly how or why. My ability to connect with animals is a great gift, allowing me the companionship of another living being. My best friend is an affectionate and mischievous orange tabby named Harmony. I own a horse, too, and visit her as often as possible at the stables. The routines of grooming, riding and cleaning out the stall bring me great solace. For some reason, with cats and horses there is very little reaction and what I do get is downright pleasant. Human babies are like that too, when they are still defenseless blank slates waiting to be filled with experience and memory.
Dogs have more surface-level energy and I prefer not to touch them, especially the more high strung or energetic breeds. Although not as unpleasant as touching a human, I can still get the jolt of electricity with certain dogs, and the images I get are more vivid and sometimes chaotic. I can communicate with them without touching, however, and have honed my sensitivities with animals enough that I've been able to train as an animal communicator and can even connect over long distances. As a result, my work is done mostly from home, consisting of consults via phone or email. I also do Reiki and Healing Touch, but only with animals of course. This sometimes requires travel to the homes of pet owners, but always with the stipulation that I cannot be touched. That old Sensory Processing label comes in handy even now that I'm grown — it offers a perfect excuse, when I feel the need to give one. But most of my clients just see me as quirky and tolerate my differences well enough without explanation, so long as I get the job done in a satisfactory manner.
Despite my inability to mix and mingle with other humans, I still enjoy the outside world. So, in addition to time spent at the stables and midnight jaunts to the 24-hour grocery store, I volunteer at a greenhouse, after hours, caring for the plants and flowers. And that is where this story really begins.
One evening as I walked up and down the aisles with the sprayer, giving the plants their nightly drink, I noticed a new face. The existing volunteers and employees knew to keep their distance and I assumed they would warn all newcomers of my little personal rule. I wasn't particularly worried about this newbie, so when she made eye contact I smiled, nodded and went back to my business. A few minutes later, however, I could sense a presence hovering around me. I turned to see her doing a little hopping dance behind me, waving an arm to try and get my attention, one finger poised to habitually tap me on the shoulder. I jumped away, startled, staring at her hand with what must have looked like a combination of disgust and fright. Then, somewhat sheepishly, I gathered my bearings and looked up at her face. Her features were arranged in an exaggerated expression of apology and concern. She mouthed "I'm sorry," making a motion with her hand that I could only assume was a sign. Her eyes were wide and green as a summer meadow, flecked with bits of gold. Her cheeks was freckled and a mane of curly chestnut hair was wild around her face. She waited expectantly for a response, but I was frozen. Partly captivated by her angelic features, partly uncertain how to communicate with the newcomer, I simply stood there and stared like a fool.
"I can read lips," she said in a flat tone, failing to enunciate but speaking well enough to understand. She flashed a hopeful smile at me, waiting for a response. All I could think to say was, "Um." I had never been so speechless around a person who had never touched me before. What on earth was wrong with me? I couldn't take my eyes off of her face. I had never seen a grown adult with such innocent beauty. The sun was setting behind her and the pinkish-yellow light filtering in framed her so perfectly, and she almost seemed to glow.
"I'm Clara," she said, again in that same flat tone.
Snap out of it! I said to myself. "Hi Clara, I'm Jessica. Jess. Nice to meet you," I said out loud. I had a sudden urge to extend my arm for a handshake, a common social practice but one I'd always avoided, for obvious reasons. What is wrong with you? I thought, clenching my free hand into a fist. That was when I noticed that the sprayer was still on, soaking the floor beneath our feet. I had gone home enough times in wet tennis shoes to learn that galoshes were more appropriate foot attire for greenhouse work. The pair I wore today was blue with yellow ducks. I found myself staring at those ducks for a moment, unable to figure out why I was so nervous around this new volunteer. Her voice startled me out of my stupor.
"Can you show me what to do?" she asked.
"Um, sure, yeah," I said, handing her the hose with a complete lack of grace, nearly dropping it. She took it gently, taking noticeable care to avoid contact with my fingers. I breathed a sigh of relief — they had warned her. She looked at me expectantly and gestured the sprayer toward the plants with a question in her eyes. I nodded. "Spray these from the top," I said, making a motion to demonstrate. I pointed to all the rows that hadn't yet been watered. When we reached the end of the hose, I showed her where to turn it off and ravel it up, then led her to the next hose. I waved to get her attention when she wasn't looking at me and she gave me the prettiest smile I'd ever seen, eyes twinkling. I couldn't help but smile back. I gestured at the next row of un-watered plants and said "Water these from underneath," lifting up the foliage and pointing at the soil below. "They don't like to get wet," I said, and for some reason she thought that was funny because she laughed. Her laugh rang throughout the greenhouse like a church bell, loud but pleasant to the ears, and infectious. Again, I couldn't help but grin, and chuckled to myself at how easily amused she seemed to be. I wondered for a moment if perhaps we might be friends. I'd never had a friend, not a real one anyway.
Clara did as good a job as anyone could have watering the plants. It was a simple job, but she seemed to take delight in it, and accepted my praise with childlike enthusiasm and a bright smile.
"Tomorrow I will show you how to deadhead and prune," I said.
Okay," she said with a nod.
Suddenly the shift was over, and all too soon for me. For Clara, too, it seemed. When we parted she looked at me with a mixture of anticipation, hope and regret. I waved goodbye on my way out of the greenhouse, pausing at the door to watch her talking with the shift lead. For the first time I noticed that she was wearing galoshes to match my own. Combined with overalls, a sunshine yellow long-sleeved shirt and unruly curls, she looked like a grown-up version of a little girl. The effect was endearing and I had to force myself to take my eyes away and retreat home to my waiting cat and computer.
The next evening Clara approached me immediately at the beginning of my shift, wearing the same overalls, but this time with a blue shirt underneath and a slightly oversized short-sleeved plaid button-down over the ensemble. It hung open, draped loosely over her shoulders, nearly falling off of one. I checked myself, resisting the urge to pull the fabric back up over her shoulder. I surmised that I could have done it without really touching her, and wondered again what had gotten into me. She saw me looking at it and tugged it into place, lifting one corner of her mouth in a sly little smile. I was relieved to see that she clearly didn't think me crazy. I set a pair of gardening gloves and pruning shears on the shelf before her and gestured that she should take them. Then we set about to pruning and deadheading and clipping where indicated. This was more difficult to instruct without touching, but we managed. I would demonstrate on one plant and then gesture her to practice on another, waving at her when needed so she could look at me for instruction. Wishing to be close to her, to huddle over the plants with arms pressing together, heads nearly touching, I grieved at my lonely and isolating condition. I normally didn't work in such close proximity to others, and the result was a deep longing for the human contact that others so often took for granted.
As if she sensed it, Clara turned to look at me. There was compassion and empathy and a trace of sadness in her eyes, sadness for me. Curiosity was also evident, but she tactfully avoided asking. It seemed her expressions were more readable than the average person, perhaps because she could not use tone of voice with ease the way the rest of us could to convey emotion. I realized then that she, too, lacked things that most people take for granted. In that brief moment we shared something that people seldom, if ever, bothered to share with me. It was a sort of understanding. She saw not the disability, but instead the way it affected me, the consequence it must have on my life, on my soul. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her hand clench into a fist and I knew she must be resisting the urge to reach out in comfort. So she comforted me with her eyes. It was as close to a hug as it could be, as close to a hug as I'd gotten in years, or perhaps ever. Then she signed something I didn't know the meaning of, blew me a kiss and returned to her work with a tiny smile. Although she couldn't see me do it, bent over a pot of marigolds with the pruning shears, I caught the kiss and pressed it to my heart.
The next two nights were much the same — me showing Clara the ropes at greenhouse work, Clara showing me the ropes at forming friendships. By the end of the week, she was a pro at her job and our bond was growing stronger with every minute. I grieved the end of training week, for next week she would be on her own. Perhaps we would still get to work side-by-side, I told myself. We parted with smiles and waves and a "see you next week". But as I was unlocking my car door I heard footsteps behind me, and then a soapy bubble drifted past my face, followed by another, and another. I turned to look, and Clara's merry face blowing bubbles through a small plastic ring filled my vision. She dipped the ring back into the little jar of soapy magic and blew again, laughing with childlike delight. I reached up and touched one. It stayed on my finger for a moment before popping.
If I had to pinpoint the moment I fell in love, it was right then. Suddenly I wanted to know what it felt like to kiss someone and if I could have, I would have taken her in my arms, pressed her to me and weaved my fingers into that untamed hair, gazing into those soft green eyes for a moment before placing my lips on hers. My body was thick with desire, a desire I'd tried to suppress all these years for the knowledge that it would never be satisfied. It must have been written all over my face, because she stopped blowing bubbles and locked her gaze with mine, our breath coming slightly faster in unison. I wondered what thoughts ran through her mind in that moment and I almost decided to touch her just so I could know. She took a step forward, as if drawn by some force, reached out, and then the moment was gone. I had flinched, an uncontrolled reaction so ingrained in me that I seldom noticed when it happened anymore. I noticed now and regretted it. She blew another cloud of bubbles at me just then, giggled and said "Coffee?"
"Um, sure," I said, surprised at the sudden detour from bubbles to desire to coffee.
Two fingers made a walking motion as she asked, "Walk?" and pointed across the street to one of those 24-hour cafes. We walked closer than I normally would have walked beside someone, but still with a fair amount of space between us. I wanted to hold her hand and wished for winter to come. If we'd been wearing mittens, I could have. Since she couldn't look at me and pay attention to traffic signals and oncoming vehicles at the same time, we walked in silence.
Curiosity set in — how long has she been deaf, can she hear anything at all, does she know what music sounds like, does it bother her, is her family deaf too? I was certain similar questions ran through her mind — how long has she been like this, can she touch anyone at all, does she know what a kiss feels like, is her family like this too? Of course she wouldn't wonder if it bothered me — that was obvious. How could it not bother someone, to be so physically isolated from the world?
The cafe was quiet — 8:30 on a Thursday night was apparently not a popular time to dine out. We chose a booth in the back corner of the cafe, far from the few customers that sipped on coffee and nibbled on pie. The first few minutes were spent perusing the menu. Blueberry pie and decaf for me. For her, a chocolate chip cookie sundae with extra whipped cream and two cherries on top, with coffee, fully caffeinated. Clara had snatched up a handful of colouring crayons and a child's placemat for herself and while we waited, she coloured in the picture and swirled through the maze, now and then pausing to grin at me. I watched with amusement. When she was finished, she turned it over and drew me a picture — two stick figures, one with freckles and curly blue hair and one with long straight orange hair and green glasses (that would be me, though my hair is actually dark brown — I have learned to trim it myself in case you were wondering — and my glasses are a deep blue). A flower pot with a yellow daisy sat between the figures. There was a purple sun in the corner, pink bubbles floating around our heads and big smiles on our faces. She saved the arms for last. Each stick arm ended in a simple circle. The inner ones overlapped so that we were holding hands in the picture. Then she wrote a question underneath. "Why can't you touch?"
My fingers reached out and traced the paper where our tiny round hands met. I turned the paper toward me, placing my palms on either side of the picture, and reminded myself to breathe. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. No one had ever asked that question and wanted a real answer. Not one single person in the universe knew the true reason. Understandably, I hesitated, unsure how to begin, worried someone would overhear.
"Write it down," she said, and dashed away, leaving me bewildered for a moment until she returned with a new placemat. She turned it over to the blank side, pushed it over to my side of the table with a crayon and repeated, "Write it down." Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. My fingers found the crayon, poised it at the edge of the paper. I was dizzy, nervous, exhilarated.
And then the coffee and desserts came, moment broken. Or at least paused.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. We each gave the waitress a polite "thank you" and a smile. She seemed to know that she'd interrupted something, though it was clear she wasn't entirely sure what that something had been. Flustered, she retreated. I looked down at my pie, toyed with my fork, the crayon and paper having been pushed aside. Clara tapped the table in front of my plate and I stared at her fingers, perfectly clipped and polished nails, soft white skin. "Enjoy your dessert," she said, voice still quiet. "We'll talk after."
I nodded, cut a bite off the end of my pie and twirled it around the plate.
"Jess, look at me," she said.
I looked up. Her eyes were filled with concern, but she smiled brightly. "Hold out your hand," she said, demonstrating with her own and then pointing to mine. I did as told, but with hesitation. She plucked a cherry from the top of her ridiculously huge sundae: two giant cookies framing a mound of vanilla ice cream and topped with chocolate fudge, whipped cream, sprinkles and, as requested, two cherries. The cherry dangled from the stem between her thumb and forefinger as she moved it across the table and lowered it into my palm.
"Eat," she said. She popped the remaining cherry into her mouth, closed her eyes and chewed slowly, savouring the sweetness. I did the same, but kept my eyes open, watching her enjoyment. Then she plunged into the sundae with unbridled joy, letting out "mmm's" here and there. I ate my pie with slightly less vigor, but it was tasty and the coffee was hot at least, if not particularly delicious. My anxieties were temporarily driven away. Every last bite of that sundae went into Clara's mouth. Being of slender build, it was a wonder she was able to eat it all. As she sipped a cup of coffee after, peeking at me from over the rim of the white ceramic mug, I found myself again curious about her life. And so I asked.
"How long have you been deaf?"
She put the cup down. "Four years old," she said, holding up her fingers and signing the number four.
"Can you hear anything?"
"Not much."
"Do you miss it? Hearing?"
"I don't remember much. Laughter. I miss that."
"Is it hard, being different?"
"Sometimes."
"Your family — are they…?"
"Deaf? No."
"What happened to you? When you were four, I mean?"
"Really bad ear infections. A lot of them. I lost hearing in one ear first, then the other," she said, pointing first to her left ear and then to her right.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's who I am. I'm okay with it. It's hard being different sometimes, but I'm used to it now."
"Is it hard to… um… to talk?"
"Not hard, just awkward. That's why sometimes I don't say a lot."
"Maybe you can teach me sign language."
"I would like that. But now I want to know about you," she said, pointing at me and then pushing my empty plate to the edge of the table and pulling the page back in front of me.
I looked down at the blank page, willing the words to come. How could I explain it without making her think that I'm crazy? The first friend I'd made in forever and I was about to tell her something that could end it. She might walk out of here and never talk to me again.
"Please, Jess. Tell me. I want to know." Her voice was gentle, coaxing. Although she spoke differently than a hearing person, she could still convey emotion with her voice. It worked. Once started, the words came easily. I tried to be as simple as possible and when I was through, I pushed the page toward her. Too nervous to look at her while she read, I stared at the table, tapping my foot and twiddling my thumbs anxiously. Her response was not what I expected.
"Does it hurt?" she asked. I looked up, surprised. Could she really believe me?
"It can. Not always."
She held out her hand, palm facing upward, soft white skin staring at me in the centre of the table.
"Would it hurt if you touched me?"
"I don't know. It's been so long since I've… since I've touched anyone."
"Can you try?"
"I want to," I breathed, eyes fixed to her hand. "But I don't know if I should."
"What did you say? Look at me, not my hand. I can't see you," she said.
I shook my head, looked up at her and simply repeated, "I don't know."
She started to pull away, now looking as uncertain as I felt. "I understand," she said. I wanted to touch her so badly, to feel that connection with another human being. The craving was a physical sensation spreading through my entire body and consuming my mind. "Wait," I said, but she wasn't looking at me. On impulse I reached out and nearly grabbed her hand. At the last second fear took hold and diverted the motion a few inches to the side so that my hand landed on the table just a breadth away from hers. She was looking at me now, startled.
"Not here," I said.
"My apartment is close by," she replied.
"Okay."
Her apartment turned out to be just two blocks away. We walked, again in silence. The walk back to the greenhouse would be in the dark, but I didn't care. My mind raced the entire time. Butterflies flitted about in my belly, tying it up in knots. At times I felt on the verge of hyperventilating. Finally we arrived and ascended the three flights of steps to Clara's floor. Her apartment was at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway — a corner unit. The sea foam green carpet was squishy beneath my feet. It must be new. The walls were a soothing lavender and covered with pictures of wildflowers. The open kitchen and dining room were to the left, the living room ahead and a hallway to the right, partially hidden behind a decorative wall with built-in curio shelves. The place was small, but cozy. An easel was set up in the dining room, next to a small green two-person cafe table. The table and kitchen island was strewn with coloured pencils, tubes of paint and mason jars filled with brushes and dirty water. Upon examination of the artwork on the walls, I discovered that they were all hers.
Clara busied herself, turning on lamps, tidying what little there was to put away, dumping water out of jars and straightening the art supplies, folding a green afghan and draping it over the purple futon. Once satisfied, she pulled out a book of matches and set to lighting candles — mostly green and purple ones — throughout the living room. There was no tv, but the bookshelves were tastefully filled with books of many colours — fiction, art, gardening, botany, biology, memoirs and more. I perused the shelves, occasionally pulling out a title to examine it, waiting patiently for her to be finished. I was getting a glimpse of Clara's inner self through normal means and it was a fantastic feeling to learn about someone through her belongings rather than invading her mind.
A few minutes later we sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, facing one another. Candles flickered around us.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
The butterflies in my stomach had grown manic, a fluttering frenzy that threatened to overcome my resolve. My hands shook. My nerve endings felt to be on fire. A lifetime of negative associations with touch was not something that could easily be dismissed on an impulse. My brain screamed at me to back away.
Mind over matter, mind over matter, mind over matter, I said to myself.
"Look at me," Clara said. I lifted my gaze to her big round eyes and instantly felt a calm wash over me. I knew I had to do this. I had to know. My hands reached out, almost of their own accord. My body stiffened, bracing for the electric shock, the current running from head to toe and limb to limb, the onslaught of images both future and past, the thoughts, emotions and buried secrets. I fortified myself for the end of this newfound friendship when I uncovered too much, when she realized how deeply I had invaded her privacy. Breath caught in my lungs, trapped there, waiting. My eyes were squeezed shut, my every muscle tensed and ready to break away. I was prepared for it, when it came.
But it never came.
When my skin made contact with hers, the first sensation was that of softness, warmth. The second was a low hum, a subtle vibration coming from her inner being and flowing into mine. My body was suddenly filled with the essence of her and it was all pureness and joy, like sunshine, honey and a child's laughter. Her laugh, I realized, from when she could still hear. An uncontrollable giggle made from true happiness. And then silence, confusion, tears. Her mother's tears. "It's okay, mommy," she tried to say, but it came out funny. Isolation. Not self-inflicted, she wanted to be with others, but people didn't know how to communicate with her anymore. They acted like something was wrong with her. Then a father's strong presence, a decision. A deaf tutor, family sign language classes, speech lessons. Immersion into a mainstream school. Interpreters. A friend. A beloved teacher who taught her to keep shining no matter what. Bullies, exclusion, loneliness. Learning to function in a hearing world. Solace in the woods — hikes with her father, examining plants, trees, flowers, and leaves; the bugs and animals that ate them, or avoided them; butterflies and gardening gloves. Freckles under a straw hat, a row of perfect white teeth smiling in the sun. Puddle jumping in the rain, flying on a backyard swing, laughter. And then a stranger's face. My face.
I opened my eyes. The breath I'd been holding had released itself already. The images stopped and all that was left was the softness of her skin and the faint humming of her essence mixing with my own. Tears streamed down my face and she reached out to brush one away, stopping just before her fingers touched my skin.
"It's okay," I whispered, nodding. "It's okay." My eyes closed when her fingers touched my cheek. I'd never felt anything so marvelous in all my life. I nuzzled my face into her hand and cried, releasing years of pent up anguish. The agony of segregation had been buried so deep within, I forgot how much it had hurt to be so separated, to be denied basic human comfort.
When Clara started to pull away, I panicked. "Please don't," I said, clutching onto her with desperation.
"Shhh," she sounded, holding fast to my hand, standing, pulling me to my feet and leading us to the couch. She wrapped her free arm around me, pulled me to her and let me bury my face into the crook of her neck. The humming was still there; her entire body vibrated with energy, and little flashes of emotion filtered through, mostly concern for my current state of well-being. But that was it, that was all. I wept into her shoulder, all the while relishing in the comfort of her embrace, something I'd longed for my whole life. As a child, my mother could never comfort me when I was hurt, hold me when I cried, or even lull me to sleep on her lap. The grief that had caused was still fresh, that little girl still yearning to be soothed by a loving caress.
When my tears were all cried, my body suddenly became aware of the close proximity of someone I found attractive. My face was still pressed into that place where neck and shoulder meet, and the skin there was wet with my tears. I breathed in the scent of her — the scent of wildflowers and greenery and sunshine. I felt her breath quicken when she realized that the mood had suddenly changed. "Clara," I whispered into her neck, forgetting that she couldn't hear me.
"Did you say something?" she asked, a little too loudly, yanking me back to reality. Pulling away gently and with regret, I straightened and looked at her. There was so much in that expression, I couldn't begin to decipher it all, and reflected in it I saw my own need.
"I've never kissed anyone," I confessed.
A momentary flash of pity ran across her face, replaced by a look of desire.
"Are you sure?" she said, eyes probing mine to make sure I was ready for my long-awaited first kiss, something I never thought would happen.
I nodded. "Yes, I'm sure."
Fingers touched my lips, breath quickened, and then her mouth was on mine. Gentle, soft, sweet. Tingling, mildly electric. She ran her tongue along my bottom lip before pulling away, leaving me momentarily satisfied, yet part of me wanting more. I sat there with my eyes closed for a moment, playing the kiss over in my mind. Nothing had ever felt or tasted so wonderful. Bliss was the word that came to mind.
"How did it feel?" Clara asked.
"Like heaven," I said.
"Do you want more?" she asked.
My eyes opened. The butterflies danced to a new tune now as I wondered what "more" meant. More kissing, or more than kissing? Unsure how far I was ready to go, but definitely wanting more of something, I nodded. She kissed me once more, lightly, briefly, then rose to her feet again, pulling me up from the couch. She led me across the room and down the hall, flipping on the light switch and stopping before an open doorway. She looked at me questioningly, then gestured to the room. I must have looked like a deer caught in headlights because she said, "We don't have to."
"No, I-I want to," I stuttered, teetering on the edge of a precipice, frightened and yet compelled to let myself fall.
"Okay," she said, and led me across the threshold. The room was dark, but when she turned on the lamps I saw that it was all creamy, yellow and bright. A rainbow arched across one wall. Flowers, butterflies and buzzing bees decorated the other walls. The curtains were white and yellow, dotted with daisies. The bedspread was yellow and bordered with flowers. The furniture was simple and white — a small nightstand, a modest headboard, a dresser and a rocking chair. The room exuded a feeling of happiness. I marveled at how colourful her apartment was — mine was drab as can be with blank white walls and that colourless carpet so common in apartments. I didn't even think apartments allowed such personalization, but maybe this landlord went against the norm, or made an exception for such a charming tenant.
Clara flashed me a smile, clearly proud to see how I admired her artwork and decorative style.
"Come here," she said, pulling me to the bed. I sat down on the edge, stared at our two hands, still locked together. The humming hadn't stopped, but it wasn't unpleasant. On the contrary, it made me feel more alive than I'd ever felt before.
"How does my touch feel?" she asked, as if reading my mind.
I looked up so she could see me speak, hoping the light of the lamp and the light from the hallway was enough for her to read my lips. "It's like a small vibration. And at first it was like you, I mean your essence, or your soul, was streaming into me. And I saw flashes of your past."
"I saw you, too," she said.
"What?" I replied, confused.
"Your past. I saw it. I felt it. I'm so sorry, Jess." The sincerity of her simple statement brought tears to my eyes. I must have somehow projected myself out to her, the way I do when I talk to animals. I didn't know it was possible with humans.
She let go of my hand, cupped my jaw, leaned down to bestow upon my lips a tender kiss and then pressed her forehead to mine for a moment. All that had transpired in the last hour or so raced through my mind, too much to process, and so I gave into the craving and pressed my mouth to hers, reaching my hands tentatively forward to rest on her waist. A little intake of breath let me know that she was pleasantly surprised. My fingers had found that place where her shirt tucked into the overalls. Novels, movies and television had shown me what to do, but instinct took over and I probably would have done just fine without all that. Hands dove into the overalls, behind her back, lifting the shirt. I relished in the feel of her velvety skin. A dam broke somewhere inside of me. I pulled her down to the bed and let myself flow into her, releasing an eternity of pain and isolation. I wanted this moment to last forever.
Every touch was electric, but in a way I'd never known. She made my body come alive. And when it was through, we held each other, every inch of our bodies connecting. The hum had intensified at first, but then reduced to a gentle purr that filled me with absolute contentment. Drunk on bliss, I fell into a dreamless sleep in the arms of a woman I would soon come to love more than life itself. Little did I know, this was just the beginning of a lifetime of companionship with this charming and enticing girl who had somehow found a way to touch me.
Jennifer is happily married to a wonderful woman, Lisa. Theirs is a union of true, deep, respectful love - the kind we all dream about. Of course we mustn't forget their beautiful little fur-family! Her two cats - Max and Hazel, dogs - Daisy and Dillon, turtles - Maximus, Logan and Sam.
Jennifer works as an Intake Coordinator at a centre that serves children with Autism and other mental health disorders. She spends much of her spare time with her nose in a book. She is also a writer and poet with a passion for the written word since childhood. Jennifer's writing has been featured in The Prologue, an annual publication of the University of WI, River Falls, Body Mind Spirit Magazine and here at Timeless Spirit Magazine.
Volume 9 Issue 6 ISSN# 1708-3265
Index
Meet Our Staff
Karma Yoga
Advertise in TSM
Donations
Free Subscription
Archived Issues
Aleesha Sattva
Beth Seilonen
John Ptacek
Jennifer Brown
Julie Hoyle
Parzival Sattva
Jennifer Kusz
Dawn Baumann Brunke
Aleesha Sattva
Phil Kotofskie
Crystal Blanton, HPs
Marcia McCord
Nicole Gardner
Parzival Sattva
a Joe Cross Film
Jon Anderson
Masood Ali Khan
Stevin McNamara
First Touch: A Love Story
by Jennifer Kusz
Copyright (c) 2012 by Timeless Spirit Magazine. All articles are the copyright of the particular writers and cannot be reprinted without their expressed permission. All rights reserved. International copyright laws prohibit reproduction or distribution of this page by any means whatsoever, electronic or otherwise, without first obtaining the written permission of the copyright holder. We retain legal counsel to protect our copyrights.
Any advice given is for informational purposes only.