The close quarters, the constant bad news, the worries about lost work, it can really get you up in your head, small stresses that turn into a sometimes overwhelming sense of isolation and malaise, so I'm grateful when Katie comes into the kitchen as I'm putting dishes away and lifts my shirt to hug me tight.
Her cool hands are on my skin, and she buries her face in my neck and inhales deeply. She breathes me in, and I breathe her in, too, the smell of her hair and her animal warmth that reminds me that I'm not just a brain perched on top of a meat machine that carts me around, not just a pair of eyes wired to a screen that pumps anxiety into my skull sixteen hours a day.
Then I feel her nails like little needles digging into my side, a tiny shock of pain, and she whispers in my ear with a quiet intensity, "If we don't eat those avocados tomorrow I am going to freak out."
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