Soft

His hand accidentally brushed her's briefly as he reached for the railing on the side of the theater. Instantly, his mind took note of how soft her hand was and he realized that something was missing.

Not her, the owner of the hand in question, but rather the mere sensation of a hand in his.

The more pathetic way of saying this would to simply put "he was lonely," but he was much too dignified to say that, and perhaps that was the problem.

For all the bitching he tended to do about his problems, he seldom did anything beyond just that; constant bitching. He knew he had to do something about it, but at the end of the day he was too lazy or cowardly to do anything of the sort.

A coward, that was what he was. He hid it pretty well behind logic and rationality, but in reality he was still a coward, unwilling to take a bold move forward in attempt to fix the problems at hand. Ultimately he wanted someone else to make the move for him, but that just wasn't the way things worked.

It was an interesting paradox he was witnessing; if he wanted to once again experience the softness of another hand in his, he would have to play a little harder to get there.