intimacy
I dig into the candy bowl and hand you the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. I don’t think about it; I just do it. I know that little tidbit about you. There were no cream-filled caramels in there, or I would have handed you one of those as well.
I’ll admit that I have forgotten that you prefer Diet Coke to Diet Pepsi, although I know you prefer English breakfast tea to coffee. You know how much I adore my coffee in a to-go cup. We like our apples crunchy, so we pass on Red Delicious and give a nod to Granny Smith.
I’ll never know if you like your eggs over-easy, scrambled, or in an omelet. I know which pastry from Hesh’s Bakery to select for you, though. You’re not a huge cannoli fan, but if I was serving one out of deference to my Italian heritage, I’d pour you a Jagermeister shot or a glass of port and tell you to just deal with the dessert choice. If you still didn’t want the dessert, I’m certain we’d come up with a suitable alternative.
I know some other things about you, too. I know the type of woman that makes your head turn. I know how smart you are, MENSA-smart, as a matter of fact.
I know the amount of integrity you possess because once when I was very, very drunk I made you an offer. You refused. We still joke about it, and how I offered to toss our unwitting chaperone from the car. You didn’t let me do that to him, but I wonder sometimes if you considered it—even briefly.
You know so much about me that it frightens me. You know my thought patterns and what I say to myself in moments of self-doubt. You know how I make everything my issue and how I always consider myself lacking.
You know how I love to hear his voice on the other end of my cell phone; like an alcoholic needing a drink was your apt comparison. You don’t really approve because you want to protect me. Do you know how much I appreciate your concern?
That’s intimacy—the knowing, the understanding, the consideration. It’s intimacy without a physical manifestation.
We don’t need the physical manifestation; our souls intermingle just fine.