Living.

It is quiet between us, and the parking lot is empty, save for a car in a corner (yours). I relax in my seat, sliding my hands under my thighs to keep them warm.

I have said all that I wanted to say to you, I think. It is getting late and I should probably go. But the present is so beautiful, so good: I am so comfortable, here in your silent company that I have no desire to be elsewhere. Just here, just now, seems to be all that matters. Perhaps you feel the same way? You are just as quiet as I am. Or are you trying to find the words to tell me something? I cannot tell. This moment is nice. It is simple. Just a car, darkness, silence and two souls. What else is required in life to feel such comfort, such peace, such calmness? The minutes pass by, uninterrupted. I look straight ahead, deep in thought, yet not thinking much at all. Perhaps this is living – simply sitting and breathing, and letting life happen, and being aware of life happening, and witnessing it happen second after second. This moment – or, I guess, this never-ending sequence of moments – is beautiful. I am living, I am alive, here beside you, in your quiet company. And I have no desire to go …