She says it casually, as if she’s long past wanting it. “I don’t need touch anymore,” she laughs, sipping slowly from her drink. But her fingers tell a different truth. They rest lightly on the rim of her glass, circling it in slow, absent patterns, the way a person might trace the outline of a memory they can’t quite let go of. The gesture isn’t hurried, nor is it nervous — it’s deliberate, unthinking, almost sensual.
Her thumb pauses sometimes, pressing just enough to leave a faint print before sliding again. The ice clinks softly as she tilts the glass, her nails catching the light. She speaks of other things — the weather, a book she’s reading — but the steady movement of her hand keeps drawing your eye. The more she talks about not needing touch, the more you notice the way her skin brushes the glass like it’s something warm, something alive.
When the drink is nearly gone, she doesn’t set it down. She holds it in both hands, cradling it as though it still holds heat. She looks away when she finally stops tracing, but the pause lingers between you. Her words say she’s done. Her hands say she isn’t. And you’re left wondering which to believe — or whether she even wants you to.