The gap

We are sitting on a couch in a cafe, nursing our respective cups of tea and cider. He is facing me, knee folded precariously close to mine. There is a perfect maroon gap between his knee and my knee. I concentrate on ignoring it as he tells me a story, so much so that I almost don't notice my tea is about to spill.

Almost.

"Woops," I say as I adjust my hand.

He looks at me, smiles, and continues his anecdote. I look at him, his odd gesticulations and the way he tilts his head at the beginning of every sentence. And I'm still aware of the gap. Then, for what I believe to be for emphatic purposes, he places his hand on my knee. My heart races, and I must have exhibited some expression because he immediately retracts his hand.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"It's fine," I reply, sipping my tea.

"No, I'm not like you know--" he stammers.

I look at his embarrassed face and say, "No that's fine, it's okay." I take his hand and place it back on my knee. "See?" I say.

We then look at each other, then back at his hand on my knee. Suddenly we burst into laughter.

"Okay nevermind," I say, laughing. "Take your hand back." I toss his hand from my knee.

"Thank you," he says. I take another sip and see that his leg has unfolded. His shin touches the top of my knee.

I look at him and smile. "You're welcome."