One thing you are aching to touch is Carlos the Scientist's hair. It looks so damned fluffy, with its messiness and spiking up all over the place. You want to run your hands through it, rub your cheek against it, pet it like a cat. But you can't. No matter how much you want to, you simply can't. Because Carlos isn't yours, and never will be. No, he belongs to Cecil, you have to remind yourself when he passes you on the street, labcoat flapping in the wind with his beautiful hair softly ruffled. It's so hard, though.
He is, as Cecil says so often, perfect.
You know if you really didn't care, if you disregarded the potential consequences, you'd have done more then play with the scientist's hair by now. But you've learned your lesson. And it hurts. It hurts so much.
When you sit out on your porch and stare up at the radio light, you can't help but be so damned envious of Cecil. He's got everything: a job he enjoys and that people pay attention to, a boyfriend he loves and that loves him back, a stable home. In contrast, you have nothing now.
You've come to realize that maybe you never did.