a moment in february

She sat at the table, watching him stroke the dog, amazed she could be jealous of a fox terrier. She, too, wanted to be touched. Not in a sensual way; she knew better than to want for that. But with tenderness, on the hand or the cheek, the way he did the dog. Like she mattered. She wanted to feel someone stop all else, reach out a hand, and confirm she still had flesh, that she still could feel. She wanted a thrill, just for a moment, to justify her memories and for her to believe it hadn’t been a dream. That one day, so long ago, she’d been whole, and she’d been wanted. That someone had cared.

That she’d been – and perhaps that moment, that senility made solid – could make her believe she might be again.

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