subject line: the 38th thread.

 

aglo, new york 

He says when we touch oxytocin gets released. That it makes us feel more attached. It’s some funky element of bonding that God bestowed on human flesh.

He keeps talking on some scientific level I didn’t expect him to possess and all I can picture in my own head is these tiny invisible cords tying me to a dozen other people. All the ones who touched me. It make sense now why “goodbye” did not carry weight or finality for all of us— there’s the physical goodbye and then the emotional one. The emotional one requires the strength and will of God to possess it— oxytocin gets in the way of us maneuvering that one ourselves.

He’s talking about intimacy and I’m thinking about letting go. Getting up. Walking out. I rise to put the wine in the fridge because I can’t stand the sound of silence. At the fridge I think about how he will probably be the 38th thread— the 38th man. Just another tally mark within a list of boys wearing black socks who started with touch and ended with a text at 1am when liquor brought a familiar girl named loneliness as a date to the party.