The touch of his fingers jolted me from sleep.
It wasn't that he was sparing with his affection. On the contrary, he was always embracing me. But every cuddle was motivated, his hands snaking down to the curve of my bottom or sliding up to encircle the fullness of my breasts, breeching the lace that contained them.
We were kids, suspended deliciously at the tail-end of our teens.
He touched me a lot.
But this was unexpected. A bizarre way to be woken.
His fingers under my nose, almost inside my nostrils.
"What are you doing?" I asked, the fog of sleep and sickness an added confusion.
The smell of menthol was strong, quite welcome through the congestion that made breathing difficult.
"You were snoring, babe. Your poor little nose is so blocked."
He screwed the lid back on the jar of Vicks and climbed back into bed.
He pulled me towards him, his body so warm. Just held me as I breathed easier.
This post was written in response to the prompt:
"Write about how the show of affection has played a part in your memory."