A Hand, Here

Sofia and I were eating eggs and talking about touch. She noticed strangers touched her a lot. More than one was named Susanna. Now Sofia made claims. Susannas must be sensual. All of them. Susannas were sensual. One had touched her forearm, asked her, “Truth? I need some advice.” One just wanted the sugar from her table. One always seemed to appear while she was shopping. “Where did you find that luscious cardigan!” Touch. Exchange. I’m Sofia. I’m Susanna. Turn back to the sale rack. After the first two were Susanna, she took this coincidence and wrote in the others’ names. Name. Sofia made claims. Everyone had an impulse to touch. If you could touch anyone, who would it be? Susanna and Susanna and Susanna, those of you who haven’t bumped into Sofia yet, if you do you’re going to have to touch her arm when you explain to her how she looks like your dead sister. Maybe just above, no just below, her elbow. She’ll admire your shoes. Perfume isn’t necessary. You all wear the right fit. You bustle. The other Susannas will tell you. Sofia will notice you have tidy, painted fingernails. She’ll notice your teeth, threads, symmetry. So maybe it wasn’t all about herself. She noticed you, you noticed her. What does a person want in this world? Not advice. No, they don’t. This is the only thing I know.
Yes, Sofia was beautiful. She was a panel of blonde, a sun parade, a meditation on what is wrong with shade. I am too. When I browsed a book, a man was going to be gazing at me when I looked up. I think Sofia would’ve disagreed, but it was probably good for me to have a friend who secretly thought she was more attractive. It’s not that Sofia wants women to touch her. It’s not that she simply wants men to touch her. Sofia wasn’t stupid. If you think I am trying to say she was, then I’ll consider this. “You know, you talk like you have an audience you don’t want,” she once told me. I was relieved and delighted. Shouldn’t we be improving?