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It was nothing she told herself. Nothing.

But, however hard she told herself, she needed to sit down. It was the third time and it was obvious it was no accident. She half expected it and, did not pull away, but stayed as the boy rested his hand on her knee.

That was all he done. It was not a huge crime but her heart was racing still - 30 minutes after it. Three times this boy, well maybe university, had sat beside her and three times he had laid his hand on her. First time it was easy to accept it was an accident, it had been so brief and he had been so apologetic, the second felt like a grope and today. What was today. For three or four minutes he simply sat with his hand on her knee.

The coffee, the cake, was calming her. Why was she so upset. Why. It slowly came. The answer came and she knew it was true and the truth hurt.

It had been six years since her husband passed away. A widower at 50, and with no desire to replace him, she had lived a life of celibacy for six years. Not by choice but by default and that boys hand resting on her knee. She looked at him more than one. He just stared ahead. His long thing fingers, a feminine sense to him, as they rested on her leg. Giving her a gentle, and calming, pat as her breathing became faster. He was not in a hurry today - there was no furtiveness - and she felt him re-assure her somehow. It was the connection, the touch, it was more than physical today. It felt less sexual, less groping, and more caring and compassionate.

Taking a deep breath she headed to work. They would be having a lazy morning and she knew there were some demanding targets ahead if she was to keep her husband's company alive. Funny, she noticed again, that she still called "her" company, "his". Like, keeping it going was somehow keeping him alive. Just before the tears came again, six years later and they still came quick, she caught herself and shoulders back walked to her office.

The touch forgotten until the following morning when she found herself waiting for the same train.


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