I have stopped cataloguing touch. In May, driving away from a house showing, I mentally revisited a real estate agent rubbing my shoulder; I tallied it like I was adding to a collection. I had been telling him about my late cat, and corrected myself with “You’re a real estate agent, not a therapist.” And he said, “I’m a trained social worker.” It was my first post-lockdown human contact: the first touch that didn’t come from a warm, constant dog. Months later, it was a handshake from a local community organizer. On that same day, a hug from a good friend: an old friend, a woman I haven’t seen since we were girls. We hugged hello, and a few days later, goodbye. I hugged her grown son. And then came the hugs in bars from men I don’t want. The hand on the back that moves in a slow, fondling creep. Now I’ve stopped collecting, and I don’t know whether it’s because I finally got what I need, I finally got what I don’t need, or because this is just life, again.