I was pretty sure it meant something more.
That night I couldn't go to bed. I wandered in the darkened apartment thinking about excuses and alibis and what happens if we run out of those. Was vision therapy finally paying off or have I spent so many hours discouraging myself from being so impassioned about life that now I only floated?
I heard my thoughts ruining the atmosphere in the living room just like a big black dog barking for a mediocre thriller, slash, horror movie. Given my lifelong search for romance, you can imagine the size of the bone I wanted to pick with that animal.
Just when I was about to take my earplugs, the dog stopped barking. It lied right next to me on the floor and started talking...
Who says talk is cheap when we pay outrageous phone bills, we overestimate phone sex and we even buy Bluetooth kits in order to spend some more time talking. And that's only the digital age, my friend. Sometimes it takes a lot more than a phone bill to pay for cheap talking. Sometimes you need a whole life of punishment for a simply loving, slash, sex phrase. Sometimes even that is too expensive.
Women want to be touched. In their fantasies - by university professors, firemen, Robert Downey Jr. In real life, by the boyfriend or the boy-friend next door. What we don't really realise is that occasionally a luscious chocolate cake needs a large quantity of banana milkshake with a pink straw for a better taste. That's when the real touching begins.
You can touch my soul and I can touch your fly.
I suggest we stop talking when all the touching makes an emulsion.
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