Intimacy

Intimacy is knowing how I like my bacon done, it's knowing which mug I like to drink tea from. It's passing me the cutlery I prefer. It's putting out his favorite knife. Intimacy is working side-by-side in front of the stove, it's slipping in beside him and adding the finishing touches to a dish he has created. Intimacy is tasting the results using the same spoon. 


It's both trying something new at a favourite restaurant, sharing and trying to guess the ingredients. It's him finishing my wine, me tasting the garlic on his breathe... and loving it. It's him sacrificing his only brown sugar sachet while stirring it into my coffee.


Intimacy is being able to read his scribblings and remembering the letters he wrote me while in the army. It's him laughing and then reading aloud to me in bed so that I can share the humour, his joy. Intimacy is knowing which movies he doesn't like and it's knowing which ones I do. 


Intimacy is shared memories: School memories, varsity memories. Memories of bravely and creatively painting our first little kitchen blue, together. It's standing on a drum, 6 months pregnant with twins, together painting the pillars he had plastered. It's planting Clivias in the mud and swimming naked in the rain.


Intimacy is me squeezing his arm until it's nearly bruised while he looks me straight in the eye, telling me that the contraction has peaked, it will get easier, I can do it, I am doing it - giving birth to his sons! It's him reading Gerald Durrell to us all, doing a wonderful impersonation of Spiro with his broken English.


Intimacy is waking up together watching the mist as it covers the mountain. It's pressing into him as he gives thanks for a new day, new beginnings.


Intimacy is getting into comfortable rhythms, soothing habits, creating and living meaningful traditions. It's a shared identity.