I veer away from it, because it always feels like the other person is draining something out of me. But ever since I can remember, I’ve disliked close contact… charged contact, emotional contact, as well as any overtly sexual contact. “I’m the odd one out, the peculiarity in my family, because they’re all normal and demonstratively physically. There’s nothing in my background to explain the way I am.” She steadies her voice, taking the impatience out of it. “I said no, I haven’t been raped or jilted or abused in any fashion.
“I thought maybe someone had been bad to you in the past, and that was why you don’t like people touching or holding you.” “Ah, damn it to hell,” she bangs the lamp down on the desk and the flame jumps wildly. If he’s in a good mood everyone gets a helping.” “I’ve noticed.” ”I wondered, did anyone ever,” shrug, “you know, hurt you so you don’t like kissing? Love?” “Nope.” She picks up the lantern and the shadows spin round the booklined walls. “I like kissing…Himi likes kissing…in fact, he thinks he can cajole and explain and talk his way out of all kinds of trouble with his kisses. … ”He props the painting desk against the desk and says, as though he only just thought of it, “Are you afraid of kissing? You know, of men?” “I don’t like kissing.” ”I suppose it’s a matter of taste.” Thoughtfully, as though she’d asked him for this opinion on osculation, instead of giving that flat conclusive answer.
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