The closet is dimly lit by a forty-five-watt LED bulb. Sports equipment is stored all around us, smelling like perspiration.
Face to face, only inches apart, Trundle asks, “Can I hug you? Not in a s****l kind of way. Just a friendly hug because we haven’t seen each other since September.”
“Sure. Why not?”
The hug melts my epidermis ever so slightly. I somewhat lose my balance, feel intoxicated by his gentle touch, and semi-believe that we should still be together. My legs wobble, and my heart pitter-patters. I recall walking in the rain with him, reading mysteries with him on the sofa in my apartment on Chelsea Street, and cooking dinner. We spent a lot of intimate time talking, making love, and doing what boyfriends and lovers do. Honestly, it feels as if a door has opened into a twoso
