Flash Fiction: Clutch.


My hand grips yours, my stumpy fingers tangled in your slender ones. Thumbs on knuckles. A squeeze. Touch comforts.

You are here. Real. Solid but shaken. Fragile. Still here. I wonder if this is contact is for you or for me. Probably some vulnerable exchange. A clinging relief.

I’m glad to be able to hang onto you for a little while.