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Porch | Nov 23 2003

I was hitchhiking cross-country with a woman I hardly knew. Previous to this we had held hands on a porch. There had been other people on the porch and I had stood next to her thinking about how much I wanted to hold her hand. Then, somehow, our hands brushed together and our fingers touched and suddenly we were holding hands. Later we discussed this moment in retrospect and she insisted that though she had wanted to hold my hand, she hadn’t instigated it.

Somewhere in Iowa, for reasons I’ve since forgotten, assuming I ever knew them, we stopped talking. We continued on to California—another three days!—saying practically nothing to each other.

All this really happened. I am being careful not to add anything.