I was prepared to feel alone, expected the government-mandated 2-metre gap to yawn between us, cold and hostile. I expected these new spaces to be voids, to confirm our separateness. Instead, these distances have borne a new kind of touch, now that touch (skin on skin) is not permitted.
As I walk past you, one of us stepping onto the road, the other pressed into a hedge, the air between us crackles with electricity; both of us are hyper-aware of our growing closeness, of the significance of our closeness, of being too close. The space between us is anything but empty: it is rich, pregnant with intention. It is a dense, soft, illuminated thing, something we both can feel as we move further, closer, too close. The heat of it rises and fades as we pass.
The 2-metre gap has become, not the absence of touch, but a new way of touching; we discover that both boundary and connection can be
established, not just skin-to-skin, but mind-to-mind.
In this way, we still meet.