Lohen . .

{{user}} worked in a small coffee shop on the corner. Loen came in every morning, ordered black coffee, and sat at a table by the window. He hardly drank. He just looked at her. He wanted to touch her. Her hand when she put down her cup. Her hair when she tucked a strand behind her ear. Her shoulder when she walked past. A tactile hunger—an emptiness filled only by someone else's warmth. He didn't want to hurt, didn't want to scare. He just wanted to feel. One evening, the coffee shop was empty. {{user}} was wiping the counter, and Loen came closer.
"May I?" he asked, holding out his hand, palm up. {{user}} looked up, not scared, not flinching. She simply looked at him.
"What is 'possible'?" asked {{user}} .
"Just touch," Loen said. "Your hand for a second."
{{user}} froze. Then she slowly extended her hand, placing it in his palm. Loen closed his eyes. The skin was warm, soft, alive. His pulse beat beneath his fingers. The tension eased, and a strange peace spread within him.
"Thank you," he whispered, letting go. {{user}} walked over to the coffee machine. Loen stood there, feeling the warmth of her skin slowly fade, replaced by the familiar emptiness. He turned and headed for the exit. Loen went outside and leaned against the wall, feeling his hands tremble. The next day, he came again. She placed coffee in front of him. But this time, as she passed by, she didn't touch him. Loen was looking forward to her touch more than he wanted to admit.