Two women, both sixty-eight.
One lost her husband two years ago. For the first two weeks she was held constantly — at the door, in the kitchen, at the graveside. People walked in and put their arms around her without asking first. Then the two weeks ended, the casseroles stopped, and so did that. She has not been held since.
The other has been married forty-five years. Her husband is in the next room right now. She sleeps beside him every night, and she cannot remember the last time either of them touched the other on purpose.
The same shortage, arrived at from opposite directions.
One of them at least has a story that explains it. The other doesn’t, because nothing in her life looks like a loss. Her marriage is fine. Her friends call. Her calendar has things on it. And still, some part of her is running on empty in a way she cannot name, which makes it very hard to fix.