midnight snack

I am in love with her, and she is in love with me. I sit on a stool in her kitchen as she putters about, making me food and hot tea. It is the best thing I have ever tasted. I take a bite and promptly forget the rest on the plate I'm so enchanted by her presence.

I am wary from traveling; my lip balm and daydream cafe matchbook have crossed several state lines with me. My sunglasses have gone missing however, and I pray to Saint Anthony that they will materialize buried in my bag or a forgotten pocket. 

It's so dark out the window over the sink reflects only the kitchen light and a bob of bouncing hair. It's so quiet the rest of the world may as well not exist. 

She is telling me about covert midnight snack runs she orchestrated as a child. She's telling me about judgmental men at church and her grandfather's friend's house she once visited that smelled of tax returns and tasted of oak veneer.

I would not mind it if the world outside this kitchen ceased to exist. My stomach is grumpy and eyelids conspicuous. I would not mind it if time froze and I was stuck eating avocado and listening to her childhood rantings evermore. 

In her presence I am reduced to a small child, in awe at the wondrous beauty of vinyl flooring, ticking clocks, and light fixtures with dead bugs in them. 

There is genuine magic in breath, and in the unconscious familiarity her physicality has with a room that reflects the love and grace she's been quietly embodying within its walls for years.

If home is where the heart is then it's nice to finally be home.