I love the feel of the brush running through my hair. The gentle tug of the tines as they rake my scalp gentle like. I can feel the warmth of his breath against my ear. I feel warm all over from it.
Like a brother. That is the way they see us. It is insultin' really. To think that we could only ever be like brother and sister.
They smile when they see us together and their eyes say, 'Ah, isn't it cute how he has taken her in? Treats her just like a little sister.'
'Little sister, huh!' I think every time it shines back at me from their eyes. If he treated me like a sister, a little sister at that, he wouldn't want me around. He would call be a pest or other derogatory names. He wouldn't seek out my company and he most definitely wouldn't look at me as though I were a slice of cake and he was a starving man.
They ignore that look. They gloss over it and then go about their business. The hear him call me, Kid, and use it to bolster their beliefs. They don't hear the wholly intimate tone and timbre.
I fell his fingers brush lightly over my hair. It is an intimate caress, this. To everyone who is blind to it he is a brother smoothing the hair he has painstakingly combed. No matter that he is not blood of my blood, nor bone of my bone.
To me it is the ultimate of lover's caresses. The only part of my body that will ever feel the glide of his fingers. At times it is not enough, but for today I am content.
As the brush makes a final sweep through my hair I here him whisper, "'night, Kid." Before he stands up and places the brush in my hands. His eyes are watching me as I smooth the long flannel hood over my hair. And they are not the eyes of a brother.
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