Do you ever let anyone touch you?” She’d asked him that. She knew the answer before she asked. “Define touch.” And there it was again, that rage that owned him. There it was, knocking down his door.
Just as he was about to leave, she’d taken out a dictionary. “Let’s see,” she said. “Touch. Yes, here it is. I like the first definition. ‘To cause or permit the body to come in contact with so as to feel.’”
“That’s an old dictionary, Grace.”
“It’s about as old as you are—which isn’t old at all.”
“Dictionaries are outdated the minute after they’re published.”
“Okay,” she’d answered. “So you think a newer dictionary has changed the meaning of the word—substantially, I mean? Here,” she said, then pushed the dictionary in his direction.
It smelled of book mold. Like the old part of a library. He’d stared at the entry. Touch. “Here,” he said, “I like this definition better. ‘To disturb or move by handling.’”
He’d shoved the dictionary back across the desk. She’d reread the entries. “Mine is the first definition. Yours is the seventh.” She’d nodded. “But here, let’s not quibble about rankings. Let’s take number fifteen. ‘To affect the emotions of; move to tender response.’” She’d smiled at him.
That’s where they’d left the discussion. With Grace having the last word.
“I don’t like dictionaries much,” he’d told her as he walked out the door.
He hadn’t liked the discussion. He didn’t like thinking about touch. He didn’t know anything about that word. Dictionaries didn’t know crap.
He showered, shaved, looked at himself in the mirror. Well, he looked fine. He’d always looked fine. The way he looked, that had never been the problem. Or maybe it had been the problem. You’re a beautiful boy, and why were the voices there, but he knew why and he knew they would always be there, the voices, knocking at his door, taking over his house.
He slipped on some jeans. He looked in his closet and realized that all of his shirts were the same—all of them were white cotton shirts. All of them. It was like having only one shirt. He’d never even realized that, God, was he screwed up or what? Twenty-six years old, and never been on a date, and all his shirts were white? What was that? And who cared, anyway, about clothes? Some of his T-shirts were black, so that wasn’t white. A few pairs of khakis and jeans, that’s what he wore. And who cared? They covered his body. That’s what mattered. He lit a cigarette, his hands trembling. He ran a finger up his arm. Touch.