It Wasn’t the Way the Hand Brushed Past… It Was How Slow It Was… see more
The first time it happened, she almost didn’t notice.
A casual reach for the same hymnbook. A fleeting graze of fingers during communion. The kind of accidental contact that could be dismissed—should be dismissed—in a house of God.
But then… it got slower.
The Art of the Almost-Touch
- The Choir Robe Adjustments
- His hands lingering just a second too long on her shoulders
- The way his knuckles accidentally trail down her back while “fixing her collar”
- That unspoken rule: If no one sees it, it didn’t happen
- The Piano Bench Incident
- When she squeezed in to turn pages and his thigh stayed pressed against hers
- How he played Just As I Am at half tempo… just to keep her there longer
- The way his breath hitched when she leaned forward to point at a note
- The Late-Night “Rehearsals”
- Where the sheet music kept “falling” to the floor
- Where his fingers found hers every time they reached to pick it up
- Where the space between them grew smaller with every passing measure
Why She Didn’t Stop It
- The thrill of being wanted after years of being invisible
- The way her pulse raced like she was 20 again
- The guilty knowledge that he noticed her in ways her husband hadn’t in years
The Moment It Stopped Being an Accident
When his hand finally—finally—stopped pretending to reach for the music.
When it stayed.
When it moved.
And when she realized…
…she’d been holding her breath the whole time.
But that’s a story for after the benediction.