itch

My body itches to try to cut it off at the steps, but the animal seems too quick for that.

Indeed, there had only been one time during all Penelope’s student days in which she had been unable to complete an assignment, and the memory of it still made her itch.

Nor was there a get well soon card the time when Penelope had chicken pox and had to spend three days taking warm milk baths to stop the dreadful itching.

His face itched and his pillow was damp.

The apple grated into the sauce, tiny threads of sweetness weaving through the fat and squash—something I had been itching to try since watching Netflix’s “Nonnas.”