I could see the small of her back. Just a silver between the edge of her pants and the bottom of her t-shirt.

She had back dimples. I liked that. Her skin is pale white.

But not embarrassingly so, not the kind you make jokes about seeing in the dark.

I wanted to touch her. I kept thinking she had to realize her back was showing. But she didn’t even tug on the back of her shirt. You know that insecure way. The way that I do to make sure every part of my body is covered.

She was just there, and I could see her back. There was something so confident about it. I can still see her now, standing at the edge of the kitchen watching football, and me sitting on her couch staring at her back.

I don’t think I’ve ever liked a back so much. But even now I can’t stop thinking about it.

I’ve been avoiding love. All sorts really. Well, not the kind of love your parents have for you. But the kind of love that friends give, that someone you’re dating has. That rush. Or the comfort of love that comes from someone that doesn’t have to love you.

After a string of terrible dating experiences I’ve been telling myself I don’t want to feel anything. Not for another person at least. It’s too hard. There are too many things that can go wrong. I’ve been thinking of all the bad parts about previous relationships, ones that didn’t work out.

I’ve seemed to forget the good bits. The parts where you can’t stop thinking about someone’s back, and how much you want to put your hand there. Not in a sexual way. Just as a way to tell someone you’re there.