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After I've shaved my legs, he likes to run his hands up and down them, smiling all giddy-like. It's an after-bath ritual, and it's ours. I wipe clear a little circle of mirror, twist my hair onto the top of my head, and begin applying lotion to my legs. He comes in, pretending to need to brush his teeth, and asks if he can help. All I can say is, "Please."
It leaves me feeling warm for longer than he knows.

I tell my girl friends that I don't shave while he's gone because yay for jeans! I don't have to shave for myself! but it's a lie. I love having smooth skin. I love rubbing freshly-shaven legs together as I fall asleep; I love hearing the sssh sound my skin makes as one thigh touches another. But more than that I love his hands. It's a ritual, and it's sacred.
I miss him so much.

They talk about travel and trust and they tell you that long-distance relationships are hard, but they don't tell you about the saddest things. They can't tell you because it's yours. They don't tell you that shaving your legs will make you sad because they aren't for him.