It was the way she touched me. On the back of my neck, right where the hair starts to fade. The left side of my unshaved face, when she woke up, her head on my chest and a smile on that little mouth of hers. Over the knee, only when we sat next to each other. In between the nose and the upper lip, tracing with a finger my perfect Cupid's bow, as she used to say. And the hair, oh my God, the hair. Her little fingers gently running through my hair, from the back up to the forehead, from the scalp all the way to the tips, and then from the start again.