An Intimate Evening

They simply sat. Really it was very quiet. An aspiring boyfriend slept at the end of the couch. Her five year old son slept next her. Her ten year old daughter slept in her bed. It was quiet.

They spoke paragraphs deep in single words, pauses, hesitations, and that rich silence. He massaged her feet, and reached out to caress her cheek with his thumb, not even thinking about it.

She had called earlier. Out of the blue a voice was playing with him on the phone. Teasing, wondering if he would remember who it belonged to. It took a while. He had been noncommittal, talking, finally: “who is this?”, and it was the laugh, and he knew.
Somehow home, it was sideways, crossways and somehow home.
Not to wonder, not to want, simply to have that moment as it’s own, as friends. Somehow they were home. In his life it had been awhile, in her’s too.

Always, always, the years and just as always the touch of hearts. As in that first moment when they simply knew they were very old, very dear friends and had laughed. And it did continue, every time, even with time apart.

The years, adventures, wars won and lost, each in their own lives. Contact lost, and now they sat and smiled quietly. They didn’t know how, but they did know.

At the door they had hugged, she had kissed his cheek, he her neck. He hadn’t wanted to let go quite yet. She had held him a bit longer. They had made a couple of sketchy plans for the next few days. He had thought to find a banjo for her son, rescheduled his coming days, and driven off.

Into the night amazed.

“She doesn’t have a clue what a remarkable woman she is” he mused. Then he laughed as he realized he didn’t often see himself through her eyes either.

They were friends.

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