Touch

Touch

"You're dangerously pretty," I said. "Dangerous to all, even yourself. But especially to me." That she was pretty was easy to see but the danger that lurked behind her eyes was dimmed, even in sunlight. It isn't right, I thought, that beauty should present such a risk.

"But you're here," she said. "You needn't have stayed."

"You wanted me to," I replied. It was true; it was in her eyes.

We left the bar; went to the car. Then I drove a way, but not too far.

"I hear you're famous," she said. "You're dangerous too. And you like pretty women."

"What man doesn't?" I said. "It's the way we're made."

The shadows were crawling across the park. They were mostly long and thin, like stretched fingers without knuckles and without nails. Already they had reached the perimeter wall and the more-than-two-years-old graffiti that was scrawled there, acclaim for a once-popular political leader who was now discredited. 'Viva X!' it proclaimed. That was all.

In the car, we sat side-by-side, silently, almost as if we were afraid to breathe. Perhaps we were. We were both waiting for something to happen, waiting for life to intervene.

"Touch me and I'll scream," she said. "Don't touch me and I'll die."

What else could I do? I took a deep breath. And. Touched. Her.

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