I am tucked against him so that his heart beats against my cheek and we fit just like you should after fifteen years. It is better when he's here, when I don't have to sleep on his side because I miss him, though I dare say the very nature of our strange scheduling is what breeds our good because in the missing there is wanting and in the wanting love stays young.
We are both tired and sunk into a movie because we're too lazy to turn it off.
But then Melissa McCarthy (God bless her!) has got us near dying. It starts like a slow flood until it's pouring over our edges and we're gasping and grasping and weeping. We are weeping! It's coming out of me like a low howl and soon I'm sobbing and I can't see anything but a blur and we miss long minutes of the story but we Just. Cant. Get. It. Together. How my stomach hurts! He's wiping tears from his face and my nose is running like I'm devastated when really I'm over the moon and so so alive.
It is good to laugh together. To be heavy with glee that bubbles through with tears that make you ugly. To laugh long and loud and wild until it breaks you.
There is a picture in an old college yearbook of my father, all dapper-dandy in his plaid pants, captured in this moment of bent-in-half hilarity and it's all dorky and adorable in a that's-my-dad kind of way. I think of that picture when I'm in an out-of-control fit of laughter and know that I look exactly like him in that moment.
I don't know why I bring that up. I suppose there's something to be said for being able to let go. To be free in levity. Shouldn't my goal always be to embody the freedom encapsulated in that old photo? No matter how ridiculous (and dorky and adorable) I look?
He gets up to blow his nose and I wipe my eyes and know they'll still be swollen and red in the morning. We sigh heavy into each other, emotionally spent but full somehow.
"It's good to laugh," he says, a residual snigger bubbling up.
And it is. So so good.
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