Tessie D

Yesterday was Thursday, which means everyone heads to Stephenville after dinner to Bostocks, a bar all the college kids go to across the street from their campus. A few of the younger dairy hands have invited me to come along, but it’s an hour there and back. And while the college kids can just walk home and skip class the next day, I still have to be at work on Friday morning.

But last night, my roommates were going, and they talked me into coming along. I made them promise that we’d leave at 11. Of course, that didn’t happen, and I didn’t get to bed until well after 3:00 a.m. I had barely gotten to sleep when the alarm went off at 7:30 so that I could drag myself up here and be on time for work by 8:00. I’ve reminded myself all day that I can sleep as soon as I get home afterwork.

Still, I did have a good time. I got home from work and showered, got dressed, fixed my hair, and put on some makeup. I didn’t look all that bad, if I had to be honest. My hair has gotten longer and curlier in recent months, and I borrowed a top from one of my roommates to wear with my jeans. It was too tight across my bust and showed a little bit of midriff, but it was nicer than anything I had brought with me when I moved here.

We stopped for dinner before going to the bar because nobody wanted to drink on an empty stomach.

The bar was pretty crowded by the time we got there. After about an hour, a guy in a western shirt asked me to dance. He was clean-cut with a round face and flushed cheeks. He was a little chubby, so the buttons on his shirt pulled a bit in the middle. His eyes were dark brown, and when he smiled, I could see the little bit of gap between his front teeth. I am not the best dancer, but the music, pulsing through my body, sounded so nice that I said yes and followed him onto the dance floor.

He moved in close to me and put his hand on the lower part of my back. When he took my hand in his other hand, I was surprised by how large and smooth his hand was. He must’ve been a college student. His hand didn’t look anything like the hands of the men at the dairy.

We began swaying back and forth to the music, and I was overcome for a moment. It was the first time that anybody had touched me–or that I had touched anyone else–since Baby died. I felt an urge to run off the dance floor, escape from the longing, the ache that came over me so suddenly. But his hands–the one I was holding, the one on the small of my back–felt so good. I leaned in and rested my head on his chest. I wanted to hear his heartbeat, just like I used to do with Baby when I’d lean over her crib and check to see if she was breathing. I missed her so much. He seemed almost startled by the immediacy of my intimacy. When the song ended, he asked if I wanted to dance again, and I nodded. I just wanted to be held.

Can a person die from loneliness? From the absence of physical touch and affection?