Nixon takes my hand in his and moves us onto the dance floor. A slow Van Morrison song replaces the more upbeat tune that just ended, and he pulls me in close to his chest. His hand covers mine over his heart, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear my own heart skips a beat in return. Only this isn’t an arrhythmia as much as an overactive imagination. One of the things I’ve come to realize I was lacking in DC was human touch. It sounds silly with what I do for a living. You’d assume I touch people every day, so how could I be lacking it? But that kind of touch isn’t intimate. It’s just not the
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