Anne wanted to be consumed by touch. Possessed by the gentleness of his hand on the nape of her neck, fingertips in her hair.
But touching wasn’t allowed anymore.
Nor was breathing. Lips close but not quite touching, breathing as one. Was forbidden.
Leaning into his safe embrace on a bus that took you into the night, further into a night of pubs and pints and music. Unthinkable.
And still she thought of it.
His earlobe between her thumb and finger, his eyebrow between her teeth. Her toes and limbs stretching up up up to drink more from his person. All myth.
The love bound line was straight. To sharing the violet hour after the rain, when the air is clear and cool and clouds come soft and water coloured. Crossing the street for home, for quiet home that can be, for awhile, privately possessed. To kitchen conversations and stained lips and bare feet on tiles.
Then and later and always to the promise of touching.
Which is not allowed.
Naturally, of course.
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