You ought to reach out more often you know, he said. I could never stop the way his eyes crawled on my body, almost as if I could feel my dread bursting from inside. When you’re a little girl, you never know what touch means bad, touches meant affection. I watched as his fingers dotted my tips, it never felt right anyways. Water never washes away the touch you know. It just is a fake Ganges in purification. Do people in love touch you all around, I asked. They do, of course they do, he answered. Silently I asked him aloud in my head, should I be knowing all of this? I still haven’t understood algebra you know. Should I be understanding this though. He always seemed like an unsolved equation and my body forever a graph unplotted.
