December 1 — Couch

“I don’t suppose my, uh, mustache precludes us from getting cozy?”

There it was, the line I had artfully crafted and rehearsed all day, delivered at the opportune moment. A two-hour lecture on political engagement lay before us. A fire burned in the hearth. We had each just made a cup of tea. Everyone else had retired for the night.

Thankfully she didn’t take the out.

“No. Actually I kind of like it.” She smiled, and we sidled closer on the couch. I started the lecture, leaned back, and stretched my arm out around her so the tips of my fingers gently grazed her upper arm.

You don’t need much for intimacy. Just enough touch to feel someone breathing as they let go of rigid tension and lean into you — or as they laugh at a wry comment you made. You just need enough periphery vision to see their chest gently rising and falling, wondering which of you will be the first to fall asleep.

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