By Touch

She was my patient. Small and so thin that I was afraid to press any harder with my hands. It seemed she would suffocate in my arms if I kneaded her more thoroughly.

I liked how she felt beneath my tired palms. I liked gliding over her warm, heated skin, stroking her firm, hard-working fingers, convincing myself that I wasn’t stepping beyond the bounds of “doctor—patient.” I liked imagining how her skin would blush—from a light shade of Navajo white to a saturated scarlet. That’s what she would be like, if, for example, I were to mash berries of wild strawberries all over her body. I liked her whispering, frightened voice. I liked her thin, unobtrusive scent, with slight notes of tea rose and white pepper. I liked everything about her, except that she didn’t belong to me.