“What? He says this as his finger slides down your calf, drops of water from the bath dotting your leg, he eases past the straggly gray hairs, the coffee-colored liver spots, tracing the veins, creeping tributaries, a mix of sun, age and the endless miles run, always one step ahead of death. How should you answer that? The easy answer is that you were lost in your thoughts, wrapped-up in some mix of memory, regret and time passed, so much time, so many steps taken and not. The harder answer is that you haven’t been touched in so long and