The Dialogue of Touch

They were standing there in broad daylight – close, involved, intimate – apparently lovers, as theirs was a more knowing touch than flesh relations should share. Not a word passed between them, yet I had a sense that by walking up on them as I was now, I was intruding. He, silky flaxen hair pulled back in a corporate-looking ponytail, eyes closed and head ever-so-slightly tilted toward the heavens. She, dark curls cascading down her shoulders denoting a Mediterranean heritage, grooming him gently. Brushing away pesky lint or pet hair, straightening his tie, flattening his lapel. Making sure that he was ready to greet the world. They both smiled slightly, delighting in their roles in this game. Yet, still, not a word.

Their brazen closeness seemed a bit out of place on this beautiful August morning. Standing on a street corner as they were, cars and bikes whizzing by as we all attempted to navigate the traffic and arrive at our respective destinations, unharmed but swiftly. Promptly. An urgency that their intimate exchange seemed to belie. That kind of deliberate touch was usually reserved for the preparation for a romantic evening alone, off the clock and away from prying eyes. Not here, not with me here, in the morning “rush hour” on Baltimore Avenue waiting at the trolley stop. They were stuck with me. I had kids to teach, and we three were doomed to share that little slice of urban real estate until the electric chariot came to carry us away, together. But they really didn’t seem to mind. I might as well have been invisible. Clearly my presence there in the midst of their couple-moment bothered me much more than it did them.

She finished her grooming ritual and gave a soft laugh. Noticing the absence of her continual hand movements against his suit jacket, he opened his eyes, smiled wider and reached behind to knit his fingers together, looping her waist in a sort of backwards hug. She submitted, leaning forward and resting her elbows on his shoulders. Again, the beautiful exchange of touch. Still, no words. There appeared to be a telepathic understanding of action and intent between them that rendered speech useless. Their dead-on acquiescence to the other’s movements showed that this was learned behavior. They had developed a highly personalized and effective form of body language. And now, rather than feeling intrusive, I acknowledged a few small pangs of jealousy. How nice would it be to have someone in my life who translated me so efficiently.

The trolley then appeared over the hill, and the three of us climbed aboard, to find a relatively comfortable place to stand in the aisle because all the seats were taken. I wondered if their vibrant closeness would be muted now that there were so many more prying eyes besides mine floating about. And to my surprise, they began to talk. Facing each other, hands flying about wildly (she must be Italian, I thought amusedly). Still, no words, because they were both deaf. Her fingers now moving with a different concentrated purpose, she spelled and gestured in ways that only they understood. Mouth moving to re-emphasize subtleties that might get lost in the trolley’s tousling to and fro. And still, between conversation, they caressed one another’s face, stroked each other’s hair and laughed, audibly. I forced myself to look away then, wiping the beginnings of a lone tear from the corner of my eye. It was joy that caused me to well up, an inexplicable gratitude to the Universe that this couple had discovered in one another the kind of devotion that we in the world of sound feel is only validated by cheap words. Their silence had spoken volumes to me, and to each other, for they were eloquently versed in the dialogue of touch. Their actions said far more than our limited language could ever hope to convey.