Once, I aspired to her cold-as-ice persona. Tactility restrained, in molded fever-denying fiberglass. The antithesis of my own unwanted touch-hungry skin. Desperately, undeniably longing for warm.
But then I realized, she’d never had the pleasure, either. Of touch. Or warmth.
So I assure her-heat is ok. Rub my hand down the length of her artificial arm.
And she comes to life.
Just like I did.