Tingles

I remember I used to get tingles whenever I meet someone new. I would put up efforts to actually exchange pieces of my self with them. I was so fascinated by new things. New people.

Was.

A person approached me the other day and tried to make a small talk that he was probably hoping could shift into a longer conversation. Deeper, if he’s that wishful. I mechanically responded with a smile, of course, the second he did that.

But after one or two words, his voice became indistinct. I didn't lose track of what was he saying, I was losing track of his whole being as a being.

The more he talks, the more he shifts into his surrounding. No, not like a candle wax melting. He was like a colored water dissipating himself into a clear water, but instead of making the clear water akin to his feature, he became the clear water.

Like a form of disappearance, I'd say, yet not really. He was talking about something mundane, still. Asking things about my self that he could already see.

I got bored. And so, I got up and went.

I was going to say, "I left". But, it hardly felt like there was anything to leave at all.

A few days after that another person came up to me. He said my cynical tendencies and whatever it was that he considered as colorless and cold got him wondering.

I said, "I can't hear you over concentrating to what's the void is trying to tell me".

He sunk into the watery, voiceless, other realm just like the other guy before him. It was really calming watching his body drifting away, floating. He was walking away from me, but somehow my memory preferred him to be floating, instead.

There are over seven billions of human population living in the planet earth. Miles of skin and veins with blood streaming in it. Warmth in so many places, they could burn. Pairs of flesh and flesh are sweating against one-another somewhere everywhere right now. Someone is holding me in right now. In flesh.

Still no tingle.

Something is clearly missing.

Then, there’s a freckle or two of memories. In which were words woven and sung out by a certain person. They don’t tingle. They do more than that. They strike. Yes, strike. Like a fishing hook strikes the lips of the fishes.

So, I bled. Like i’ve always been. But, with a smile this time.

I got the tingles again.

This has been a short story by Eriza. For more stories like this, please follow Pleasure & Pain, our Medium publication that explore the complex intricacies of love, sex, and relationships. To write for us, simply tweet the editor at @bonni07.