Touch

They meet, without touching, at the edge of two stories, his unfolding, hers under revision, or perhaps hers rising, his falling, brushing past one another with no more contact than that made by two empty coats in a restaurant cloakroom, say, one being checked in as the other is returned to its owner, who leaves, arm entering a sleeve, without remark, though not without a glance at the other, a glance returned, the first perhaps of their touches, speaking loosely, but across a dim entryway and nothing in it, more like a casual jostle than a touch, the sort of meaningless contact of eye or body parts one might endure in the elevator or a subway car, or else in a crowded theater lobby, where such a glance or heedless bump might lead to conversation, or at least an apology or an...