Touched

Touch.
It’s such a simple thing. One of the greatest gifts we have to give.
And one of the best to receive.
And I’m convinced that we need it, as much as we need food and water.
I bribed Kimbolina with grilled salmon (which I myself caught, cleaned and cooked), coconut rice and green beans, if she’s bring her magic fingers over and work out some kinks. Normal wear-and-tear from hiking and cycling.
She brought her massage oil and her little leg-raiser thingy (“I didn’t bring my table, it was in the closet and the legs were facing back. I couldn’t get it out without harming it, or myself,” she said).
She even brought the wine.
We ate and talked.
She took a call; I did the dishes.
And then worked me over.
My back and shoulders. My hamstrings. My hands.
“I haven’t done this in a bit, so tell me if it’s too much pressure or too little. Don’t know what I can do if it’s too little.”
It was perfect.
I’d let out a little sign or grunt, and Kimbolina would respond with one of her own (and she’s got a cute little sigh, like “uhmmmm”).
At one point, I was at that point near slumber, drooling on the sheet.
And the massage was done.
I was relaxed, happy.
I had been touched.