Touches.
I'm beginning to believe I have sensitive knees.
I was perfectly fine at first, sitting alone on the common room sofa, turning pages in a dog-eared book. My heartbeat scampered along at a regular pace.
Now I am distracted. My skin is excited. It expects another candid touch.
James is sitting beside me, having traipsed in and sprawled himself on the sofa.
His long legs are bent out in front of him, his right knee poking my left. I regard this as an offense, which explains the thrill up my spine.
Is it normal behaviour?
My aberrant thoughts run errant. It's the tactility. First it's knee to knee. Then you can't help but imagine his hands there, running the same course.
"Alright, Evans?" he asks.
He jostles himself lightly, collecting his knees as he straightens up. My skin itches with disappointment.
"Fine, thanks," I reply.
He runs a hand absently through his hair. I watch him toy with it. I wonder what it would be like to touch. Perhaps as soft and glossy as Hippogriff feathers; or maybe it's dry and twiggy, like a nest. How would my fingers react against such a texture? The question hovers on the soft pad of my dactylion, primed for the feeling.
I give myself a little shake.
"If you don't mind, I'm reading," I say, polite but crisp.
He gestures with his hand for me to resume.
Even as I return to my page, I deliberately knock my knee against his.
I have to find thrills in the smallest of ways.