Touching
Their breathing was almost a tangible presence in the dark room, something separate from the two bodies lying close and warm. Their hands were touching, fingers entwined even in sleep. Their breathing was just out of synch—rising rising, falling falling. As the woman started to roll to her side, the man's hand instinctively tightened, keeping her in place. There was a pause in the breathing, like the silence after a slap.
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