I sit and wait, straining my ears, listening for his footfalls.
How did I come to love this place so much, I wonder as I shift on the dirty crate upon which I sit. An empty, dirty warehouse. As boring and uninspiring as anything on earth.
But I know why I love it. It is here, between these stained walls, we can sit and talk. And, most importantly, look at each other.
Contact has always been a big No No.
No eye contact. No physical contact.
We stand beside each other on the shore of the pacific. We sit at parallel tables. We stand opposite each other on a golf driving range.
We talk.
We don't make eye contact.
We don't make physical contact.
At least were not supposed to.
We have slipped up in the past. I touched his hand when we stood on the pier. We made eye contact on the golf range.
These slip ups could cost us our lives. If They saw us, it would be all over.
This is as serious as it gets.
But we don't seem to care.
The way his brow furrows when he's worried about me. The tone in his voice when he yells at me for risking my life. The concern in his eyes when he sends me off on another mission. The way his face brightens when he sees I have arrived home safe and sound. The way his breathing becomes laboured when we touch.
All these things and more tell me he feels the same way I do.
That the contact we make is worth it.
That we need each other.
I hear a noise. I stand and I see him walking towards me.
He smiles at me and I smile back.
He closes the gap between us and we make contact.
The kind They definitely wouldn't allow.
