Munching popcorn by the fireplace, we sat knee to knee enjoying the silence that was interrupted only by...
...the sound of the chewing,
...the clattering of Barrington's feet on the hardwood pouncing after a charitable kernel tossed in his direction,
...and the music of each other's voice.
It was midnight; youthfully late for two middle-agers more accustomed to fading out during Letterman's monologue; illumined only by the fire and the extant string of Christmas lights on the deck railing I haven't been intrepid enough to ski or snowshoe or mush a dogsled across to unplug. The play had run long -- two 10-minute intermissions before the final curtain call some three-and-a-half hours after the opening lines were spoken -- and it had been funny and poignant and somehow evocatively enigmatic.
Perhaps, then, we were as hungry for some reflection on the script as we were for the popcorn; or perhaps the sub-zero shuffle to the car parked blocks away from the Civic Center had exhilarated us beyond sleepiness; or perhaps it was just one of those rare and delectable moments in which time is suspended and the frozen night is a velvety embrace, capacious and reassuring...
...and the touch of beloved knees by firelight is all there is in the universe.
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