The best kind touches the soul, she said.

After Mag, I stopped touching people. I stopped letting people touch me. It wasn't something that I thought about so much as it was a chronic symptom of knowing her.

I remember the first time I zipped up her dress, the first time I braided her hair, the first time she silently grabbed my face just to scrutinize my every pore. I remember our first meeting, how she snuck up behind me and placed her hand on my back, as if this was the customary way to greet strangers. I remember our feet and knees nervously touching under restaurant tables and in movie theaters. I remember her arm casually brushing against mine when we stood in line together. I remember each strand of hair, each tear, each eyelash, each bit of mascara or eyeliner, each smear of lipstick, each trace of paint or pen or frosting or foam, each miscellaneous smudge we wiped from each other's face. I remember my palms sweating when she took my hand in hers. I remember her collapsing onto the floor, sobbing at the thought of being apart, and I remember lifting her up into my lap, holding onto her and truly wishing that I never had to let go. I remember smoothing back her long, blonde hair with one hand, squeezing her cool, dry palm with the other. I remember how her skin was always just a little bit colder than mine, how on a cold day she'd pull my hands to her face or her neck or wrap them around her own to warm herself up. I remember the bruises, the bite marks, the scars—hers and mine. Mine: wine-colored, some shaped like words, some shaped like stars, precise. Hers: little gray-pink crescents, a galaxy of quarter moons in a milky white sky. I remember the first time she sunk her teeth into my shoulder, purring, "I hope you don't mind pain." I remember the first time she peeled off her jeans and t-shirt, straddled me in star-patterned underwear, told me to relax. I remember tracing her ribs with my index finger and her calling herself a "starving artist." I remember waking up in a cold sweat over reoccurring nightmares and how she'd pull me in close to her, breathing warmly into my ear. "Shhh, it's okay. You're okay. I've got you." I remember her standing in my doorway, screaming at me over things I'll never understand and how much I wanted to grab her and shake her and yell, "It's me! Don't you remember me?" I remember letting her go, letting her slam the door behind her, after she looked at me like a stranger and didn't kiss me goodbye.