Intro: my sister is five years older than me and has been writing since I was a kid. I've always read her stories with a sense of awe and felt a deep connection with the themes conveyed. She's been writing chapters for her story Contact for years, and after reading her latest chapter, when I sat down to write, this is what came out.
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They were lying on the couch together: her with her back against his chest and him with his back against the armrest. They were eating triscuits out of a box sitting on her lap, talking about what had happened in their hours apart between the morning and evening, when he made a joke, and she chocked on a triscuit, and they both began to laugh: spurring each other on by the jolt of another body laughing against their own. Their secret is this: as he does the dishes with her hands wrapped around him to rest in his front pockets, and she’s eating breakfast with her toes discretely tapping his under the table, and they’re innocently laughing body to body on a couch, they’re living out the true meaning of existing as one flesh with another human being: contact.
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