Touch is her enemy; her fingertips on his warm back now abhorrent, repulsing. She remembers when touch was the bond between them. When they hungrily explored with urgent fingertips.
Rebuffed, she pulls her fingers away, as if burnt by the heat of a stove. She returns to the prescribed distance between them, back to back in the barren bed. For a moment. Then, she slides out, leaving quiet sobs, wet pillow behind.
Padding out to the kitchen, she feels the coldness of the wine bottle, the responsiveness of the keyboard under her fingers.
A short think on mlmm Tale Weaver #106: touch