As I turned to sprint from my hiding spot, where I had spent the last 10 minutes of the match trying not to get shot by lasers, I feel a hand grip my arm and roughly tug me back into the corner I was making a full-hearted (and frankly stupid) attempt to emerge from. The hand covers my mouth, silencing a shriek that was, undoubtedly, about to reveal my hard earned place of refuge between one black wall scatter with random spray paint drawings that glowwed flourescent under the black lights of the course and another.
I feel my back hit the wall, quickly followed by the sensation of a body pressing down the length of mine. The current of anger that started in my bones from the first firm touch immediately transforms to something else entirely in my skin when I pick up the scent coming off of the hair tickling my nose.
Chris has always had this easy way of touching the people he loves. His brothers, his parents, his friends...and me. I eny it. He never over thinks it.
Over the years, it's evolved from kissing band aids on my scratches when we were in kindergarten to mussing my hair in junior high to throwing me in just about every swimming pool in the Boston metro area as seniors in high school, but even the rough touches are love. I secretly savor even those.
It only takes a second to sink into my delusions. I am an expert at this. I don't often allow myself this luxury, but when i do, I milk every second. This happy accident will fuel many of my self bludgeoning fantasies. He hasn't been this close to me for this long since he noticed I was growing boobs in 7th grade. So I let myself sink into the feeling. No story Today.
I almost never let my mask down. If l did, I'd be risking my place in the fold. I wouldn't get these thoughtless, easy touches. I wouldn't feel like a spoke in the wheel anymore. I would snap, and they'd roll away without me. I wouldn't get all the unedited moments.
Because without my mask, I am one of four million other people who share this same delusion. Without my mask, you can see my cheeks redden. Feel my heartbeat quicken. See the fight not move my hands that ended up on his chest in my surprise. You would know that I'm keenly and devastatingingly aware of his hand on my hip and his thigh, that he pressed in between mine in his haste to fit both of our bodies into this too small corner. If he looked down at my face, he'd see it's the same face everyone makes when sucked into his orbit. And then he would turn off his gravity, and everything would be ruined.
I'm taking a risk. I'm taking a risk because the music is loud, the competition is high, the room is dark, and he is utterly distracted. I leave my face wide open. My mask off.
He would only need to pull his focus from ensuring no one noticed my clumsy attempt to capture the flag and glance at my face to ruin years of deprivation and hard work.
As that thought passes through my head, I realize that the commotion that brought me to this agonizing position is fading away. I no longer hear whispers. The footsteps are retreating. Soon, he will fix his attention on me to administer whatever mysterious scolding I've earned with my tactical faux paux. So, I take one more second to memorize the feeling of him pressed against me, protective and frustrated, before I slip back into my role as unaffected, slightly annoyed childhood best friend.
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