Untouched

It isn’t uncommon for me to feel tired and emotional as I head home from work at the end of the day. The trip home yesterday (however), was worse than usual. I didn’t feel well. I’d had a long day, had a headache and was tired, and… had a pilates class to go to before I could eat, sleep or just loll around feeling sorry for myself.

The bus was busy and I noticed the rather cute young man as he got on, before he came and sat next to me.

Normally I feel self-conscious when it comes to bus seating arrangements. I am not petite by any means, so I worry about whether I leave enough room on the seat for my neighbour as I cram myself against the side of the bus like a demented contortionist.

It was a slow trip. My neighbour pulled out a book. I lamented that I’d left my headphones at home and had nothing to read. But I was so tired, I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes.

About 15 minutes and barely any distance travelled, I looked down. Despite his ‘slacks’, I could tell he had nice legs.

They were long with his thighs reaching the seat in front. They weren’t narrow and they looked strong. Even encased in dark slacks.

I noticed his hands. That was when I almost lost it.

They weren’t amazing hands. But they were male hands.

I was completely overcome with a sense of loss. A loss for something I do not have and, in many ways, have never experienced. The sense of touch, of affection and of love.

For the next short while, I ached. Not for him specifically, but I yearned to reach out and touch his hand. Or for him to hold mine. The sensation, the desire was almost palpable. That sense of touch, of intimacy.

I wanted to cry. The tears hovered, but remained unshed, instead blurring my vision. In that moment I felt devastated. Completely alone and perhaps always to be so. I had only seen my niece the day before and we had hugged. Two weeks before I had seen my parents and I know we hugged.

But there, on that bus, and in that moment, I felt bereft of human contact, or more importantly, of love and affection. I longed to grab his hand, to feel his touch. To feel that contact.

A massage therapist once told me that it isn’t uncommon for female clients (those who are widowed or divorced in most cases) to cry when she massages them. The feeling of being ‘touched’ is more than a physical one. It also touches their heart and their soul.

In my darker moments I worry that I go through life untouched. An emotional wreck at times, but with a cold, unyielding, untrusting and unforgiving heart, set up to protect itself from others.

In the meantime, the bus trip continued and I sat there with my eyes glued to the hand next to me - tempting and teasing me at the same time. I tried to imagine the happiness, the pleasure, joy and comfort that a hand (in mine) could hold. But instead I was confronted with the solitude, isolation and lonlieness before me.