åsmund.

{ a gentle reminder // kind disclaimer … semi – fiction …}

My partner has left for the season. The approaching weeks alone in the city are too distant to count and chasing after our time difference at such a far distance is proving to be difficult. At this point in time, I have been translating my inexplicable medical concerns and sudden pains as an awakening in my body alarming me of its need; a simple need for friendly touch.

I often evaluate my mental well-being by the number of days from the last form of physical contact I have received from someone. Every day blends into the next as I begin to lose sight of this instinctual craving. Words and digital connectivity no longer fill my spirit, and visual simulation tire my senses the more I exhaust my imagination. Professional relationships that once fulfilled a single purpose feel less significant at the realization that they wouldn’t be able to break down any walls even if for the sake of necessity.

& today was another work day in SoHo, not far from my neighborhood nearly hanging off the edge of Brooklyn that pined after the Manhattan skyline. I completed my routine metro commute while pursuing my various language studies. I had recently reached fluency in Greek which inspired my next pursuit to learn German. I frequent the foreign film section on streaming platforms and memorize pages from various linguistic dictionaries. Most all of my connections require some form of foreign language, as I often speak with coworkers in Greek and friends online in a variety of other languages.

This brought to my attention that the one universal language I can’t seem to indulge in is physical affection. Society’s new standard social distancing restrictions have halted this language of touch. I have no opposition to it, given that it is a necessity to protect humanity from fatal illness. Nearly five months in, I am now desensitized to hiding my identity behind a symbol of conformity otherwise known as a face mask. Isolation has simply become an expectation.

Upon arrival of my work place, I spotted a familiar face nearing towards me. Åsmund? could it be, or was I hallucinating? it couldn’t not be him, his warm presence was nearly undeniable. how could it be? From what I understood, he was acquiring his degree at a university far from NYC. His destination was always changing, could’ve been Denmark, Amsterdam, Cyprus… I could never keep track. Regardless, I was sure it was one of the many irresistible vacation spots surely his wealthy father was able to fund. Åsmund inched towards me, almost as if he intended to find me. I hadn’t seen him in person since last summer in Cyprus, but I hadn’t forgotten his distinctive features. His minimalist wardrobe, denim and pastel knit tee, effortless hair cleanly shaped to frame his face. I couldn’t identify him with any specific culture as he was not particularly muscular and dark-haired enough to appear Cypriot, could’ve been a dash of Scandinavian, but even when he spoke I could also sense a familiarity that felt close, almost intimate as if he were from NY. I envied this internationalism about him, yet appreciated it all the same.

I approached him slowly, hardly believing my eyes. Calling out his name, he stopped to greet me. We exchanged formalities, given that we were only acquaintances from our time in Cyprus and had met through mutual friends. There was a tension in the air, as our attempt at small talk quickly awakened the laughs and shared moments from the past. This fazed me, as I felt another sharp ping in my body. I interrupted his sentence, he may have had been speaking about his many expeditions, studies, or internships… but I simply couldn’t help but politely request a hug. There was a shy tone in my voice, hesitation nearly muting the request all together. In the end, he leaned in offering a friendly embrace. It felt so foreign. This touch that I had prayed for at last in my arms.

He was taller than me and his body so lean I could wrap his entire torso without strain. His bones felt so fragile, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. His head rested gently on my shoulder as I embraced the moment absorbing his scent of fresh linen; modest yet memorable. Åsmund wasn’t flashy or boastful despite his family’s origin of power, money, and education. I will never forget his eccentric stories, our late night talks, and being the subject of his photography under the stars in a Cypriot field. He was authentic, and even upon first meeting him, he centered many of his questions towards me drawing attention to my existence. Filling my spirit tenderly, the moment immediately transported me to similar gentle hugs from my little brother, James. Similar lean torso, gentle touch, a humble voice.

Åsmund disconnected, pulling me back into the moment as he kindly explained that he had to be on his way. I, of course, didn’t object… wishing him well as I watched as he escaped from my peripheral vision.

I wished this brotherly act could’ve been real enough to end the painful sensations in my body, but every time I revisited it in my memory I was reminded that my subconscious often attempts to aid my needs with these projections in my head that have a short lifespan, fading with the passing time that coldly drags me further from my awakening.