In the quiet
It’s quiet and dark in the early hours of the morning. You barely shift beside me, your breathing deep and easy. One leg always flung outside the covers, you rarely dream (and when you do, is it of me?). I set my alarm ten minutes before yours to spend that time awake before you, soothed by your steady breath and arm resting beneath my head. Outside the sky slowly shifts from a dark wicked navy to muted pastels. When you open your eyes, you blink slowly and peer out from the shadow of sleep as though you’re seeing the world for the very first time.
The music is moving on to the next track, and there’s a slight pause in the rollicking laughter and conversation that flows so effortlessly. Before we know it, we’ll start dancing again, barefoot and booty-shaking around the room. But in this quiet moment where we both take a breath, time stands still. We are here now incredibly enough, in what you called “a thimbleful of chance” amidst an ocean of possibility. There’s barely a half second to capture the moment before the bass starts its thumping.
It’s a silent spring night, and the only sound is the turning of pages. Your legs cross over mine and we both glance up occasionally. You keep track of the time to make sure that I get to bed at a reasonable hour; I watch your eyes to gauge how much you’re actually enjoying the book recommendation I gave you. My head rests on your shoulder and then whoosh! I’m gone, in a world of Chuck Palahniuk or Daniel Wilson’s choosing, their words pounding a beat into my head.
In between the jokes, laughter, engines roaring, phones buzzing, the cacophony of noise throughout the day, those snippets of quiet say the most and speak the loudest. It is within the quiet of your presence that I grow closer to you.