The Midnight Snack
There’s movie intimacy — all fireplace and wine and sexy lingerie and long, deep kisses.
And then there’s intimacy. So many colors of intimacy.
There’s the eye contact when you’re in a group together. Your eyes lock because something happens that only you two ‘get,’ and it’s either funny or dark or it makes your eyes roll — and you both have to suppress all those reactions, which makes them more intense. And later, you laugh and laugh about it.
There’s copping to the truth — to or in front of the people you love who might vilify you for it — but it’s the only way to come clean. And you will probably lose everything, but you do it anyway. Both in spite of, and because of your love for them.
There’s intuiting when to drop a conversational habit — the upbeat, look-on-the-bright-side wall that goes up between you and someone else’s suffering. There’s knowing when to stop building that wall so you can offer, instead, words that mean more. Words like, “This is terrible.” Or no words at all. Just presence, and a companionable silence.
And there’s one of my favorite intimacies: For any one of ten thousand reasons, you both find yourselves awake at three in the morning. Wide awake. Let’s say you’ve been awake for a while, and then your Other makes a sound or moves in a way that lets you know they’re awake too, and you’re so glad. You talk about whatever it is. A worry. A nothing. Whatever.
And then you decide to play hooky from the dark, from convention, from everything — and have a midnight snack. That sweet conspiratorial rummage in the fridge, creating whatever bad idea your stomach convinces you it wants. There’s a let’s-make-a-fort-with-blankets feel about it. It’s one of my favorite moments of intimacy.
And we got to have one last night.