57: Worshiping the Conscious Thief
‘Yes, yes I am.’ I mutter. I fiddle with light the seat the air; her knees catch me off guard. I must touch everything! Her hand is on my seat. She’s breathing on purpose. Shh. Be gentle, words scare so many of us, but surely they don’t mean a single thing. I start shaking, my thighs are always first, like I want to burst into a sprint and scream with joy at the top of my lungs; but there’s nowhere I’d rather be than next to her knees, so I shake. She whispers in Russian, its only music. I can’t look at anything but my fingertips. I watch them make up words for me, I read them aloud so my soul doesn’t give up hope in me.