Touch: or, The Absence of It

His hand was larger than hers, his warm palm slightly rough against hers, his long fingers settled in the spaces between her own. A pinprick of fire marked the place where each of his fingertips brushed the back of her hand as his thumb stroked the skin of her inner wrist. She had never known her flesh to be so sensitive and each point of contact made her crave another.
The fingers of his free hand traced the shape of her nose, the curve of her cheekbone and the point of her chin. They danced along the slope of her neck and the curve of her shoulder. She did not know that the shoulder could feel or appreciate a touch so delicate. The craving increased, a crushing desire, devouring all thought, all the world beyond the sensation of skin against skin. They breathed simultaneously bringing their chests together. Her eyes dropped shut and he brought his hand to her face once more, his thumb brushing her closed eyelid. The blue tracery over white bearing more beauty than a butterfly's wing.
Her mouth formed a soft pink pout and finally he bent to press his own lips against hers, that most pure and lovely of touches.
But when she woke, his presence previously so warm and sure and solid, faded to smoke and memory. Gone all the quicker for her desperate attempts to grasp it. Her chest heaved in a sob and she ached for absence of his touch.

I Wrote A Flash Fiction Story

I woke up to the sensation of my phone vibrating under my head. Pulling the phone out from under my pillow I saw that the time was 1:30 AM. I quickly and quietly crawl out of bed, slip into the jeans and tshirt that I laid out the night before, slide my bare feet into my leather moccasins, and slip through my window. With a fwump I landed on the soft green grass a few feet below my window.
I crept along the house a few feet, hardly daring to breathe as I passed under my parents' window, and then I was homefree. We live on a dead end street so it's very quiet. I started walking. To the end of the street through the small bit of trees that we call woods and emerged in my favorite place in the world. A small roughly circular field, surrounded on all sides by more trees. It was dark there and I could see more stars than I'd ever seen before. Sometimes I'd come here and lie down in the middle and stare at the stars, dreaming, until I'd fall asleep. Then I'd realize my mistake and dash home, my parents would be frantic. I never did tell them where I'd been though. I'm sure other people knew about the clearing but it felt like it was mine and mine alone. I didn't want anyone else to know. Until one night when I silently emerged through the brambles and saw a dark shape lying in the grass. As my eyes adjusted to the light of the full moon I saw it was a boy, probably about my age. There was something boyish and innocent in his expression as he looked at the obsidian and diamond sky above him. And, without a second thought, I walked toward him, making sure to make enough noise that I wouldn't startle him. I came within a few feet of him but he still didn't look up at me. So I laid down next to him, maybe about six inches between us and, without quite understanding why, brushed my fingers against his. It was a feather touch. It could have been the grass if not for the warmth of it. And yet, he still didn't look at me. But he smiled, as if he'd been expecting me. And there, on that night, under the watchful eyes of the heavens, it made sense. Of course he'd been waiting for me. Why had I been so late?
But, of course, it didn't matter. I was there now. He grasped my hand and looked over at me, a serene smile playing about his lips. The full moon's light hit the side of his face, making it more angular and yet, somehow softer, as if he were glowing from the inside. I ached to kiss this boy, this boy I didn't know and that felt vaguely like a dream. Longed to feel his lips pressed against my own. And just then, he moved toward me and I closed the distance, softly pressing our mouths together. I'd only kissed one other boy and it hadn't been good. I was 14 and, for the most part, it felt like children playing at being grown. But this was different. Warm, slow and lovely. Right.
We only kissed and then we went back to lying side by side, staring at the stars.
I become drowsy soon as he hummed a lullaby and I drifted off to sleep with my head on his chest and our hands still clasped. The sun woke me gently the next day, the birds my alarm clock, but I woke alone.

I never did see the boy again. For weeks, I went to the clearing every night but I never saw anyone else. And it's been months now. It's starting to get cold, my breath leaving my body as visible puffs of air. But still I wait for him whenever I can. I feel it is what I must do, wait for him as he waited for me.