Forgive me for asking if that’s all weird. I can’t go by Esme’s salon, ever, now. I mean, it wouldn’t bother me, but I worry that it might bot...er you. I only think of you when I , you know, and I don’t ever want to think about anything else, ever. Just you. Did I mention that I love you? I do. I think about your hands, too, and your fingers. I like it when you touch my face with your fingers. They’re so soft, so warm, and I feel like we’re connected when even one fingertip touches me. I go to. She was lying on her side, propped up on her elbow and leaning over the small divide between our flat beds; she had a clear view of my screen; I was busted again! “I’m sorry,” I mumbled but she reached across and opened up my Macbook and the movie started playing again, “Don’t be,” she said smiling. Her smile managed to convey playfulness in having caught me in the act, but also desire and naughtiness that made my erection strain against my jeans even more. I realized I was still stroking. More

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