She sits on the couch, sinking into the cushion, soft and warmed by the sinking sun. She’s gorgeous in the sunset, shades of wine perfectly complimenting the cherry of her hair. A passing hand sinks into her hair, tousling the crimped curls. I watch as she leans into the hand, following it till it leaves for the kitchen door. I know she needs it; she’s so tactile, so physical. She doesn’t deserve touch-starvation.