Earlier this month, the New York Times did a piece about holding hands...
"We found that holding the hand of really anyone, it made your brain work a little less hard in coping," Dr. Coan said, adding that any sort of hand-holding relaxes the body.
On Saturday, toward the end of the second costume party Roommate Rachel and I attended, I met a man dressed as an ancient Roman. I was well and tipsy at this point. We sat together on a couch, next to my roommate and the boy flirting with her.
"I'm psychic," Roman said.
"Me too, especially when I drink," I replied.
"You're going to be married within 18 months...but not to me," he prophesized.
"You hate your job, but have an opportunity through a friend that will pan out in the six months. You're scared to take the risk, but you should go for it," I replied.
"You're going to have two kids, a girl and a boy."
"Wrong, they're both going to be boys," I corrected him. "I don't see any girls in my future."
He told me he's bisexual and Leo. I rolled my eyes.
"Not another Leo."
"We're not a good match for each other," he said.
He held my hand anyway. It felt so good, like something being released, a little bit of darkness dissipating.
"It's a lonely time right now."
"It is, very. But a little less so, at least for now," I said.
He kissed me. It wasn't a good kiss. Awkward. The handholding was better.
I stood up. "I need a cigarette."
"I wish I had a joint."
"I'm going downstairs for a cigarette." I got my coat, said my goodbyes to the hosts.
He followed me outside. As we reached the bottom steps, he said,
"I thought it was going to be men for a while."
"Then you should go be with men."
It was cold outside, and he couldn't stand the wind in his thin toga. I waited for Roommate Rachel to come down, and we hurried home in the frosty air.
The kissing didn't faze me, but the holding hands was a glimpse and reminder of what it's like not to be alone. It was intense, too much so. I don't think I'll be ready for a while.