A Blister

So the hug had come and gone and now they were staring at whatever came next.

What, she had stated, watching him, remarking him and stepping back a few feet from where she had been...which was literally in his arms but was now a bit of a distance.

Nothing...he started...it's just increasingly difficult to let you go...and not like a release...rather, it's just like a departure.

She was still pretty close...close enough for him to grasp the scent of her potions, the hairspray...the tiny elements of her make-up that he could detect.  He more or less detected her as much as he saw her...she invaded his senses far more than just the visual.  She was as much an allergen, a pathogen...she invaded his breathing and infused herself into him...all without her knowing.

I'm doing all that I can...I suppose the best that I can.

I know.

But you...she hesitated...which she did when she muscled words out of her mouth...you think I'm not?

Clear bait.  He wasn't going to completely bite.

There is some friction here...he started...like when something is very comfortable when it first fits...and you wear it so well...you forget it's even there...but after awhile...some time....well, the bit of friction is enough to raise a welt...a small irritation...and then it becomes something bigger.

Am I that irritation?  She ventured and moved her head a bit...an annoyance. 

God no...no.  It's in these departures...these disconnections...these moments when we take the together parts and move them into the "well, these are no longer together" parts and it chafes and it rubs hard against leather and it just causes us to feel a pain point.

She looked at him and her eyes were full of extraordinary understanding...like they usually were...but her brain, and her synapses and her words were carefully sculpted...they had the benefit of reason and they were blurbs in the air between them...he rightfully wondered if they were completely naked at that moment, aligned and intertwined if her vocabulary would change...he thought about that a moment.

Are you saying I'm that irritation? she asked again.

He inhaled and let a smooth long peel come out of him...hoping to explain that yes, indeed she was the source of his skin against skin pronouncement...that she was the rubbing edge of a sun against a horizon...she was the invading light of a summer moon against a chalkboard black sky...she was the sifting of sands against a copper tin bowl seeking gold...she was always friction because she was the counterbalance....the weather combination that produced storms. 

No...I'm sorry.  Not that type of friction.

Well than what type am I?

He paused for a tiny second...you know the static sparks you see when you pull up the sheets?  When you are just about to descend into sleep and you have one last muscle memory to quickly tug and allow the spread of cotton across you?  And that few bits of kinetic energy that camera flashes in tiny pieces? 

Yeah, I've done that.

Well...that is you...at least the resistance that I think you cause.