This has to be the perfect hug, the deepest hug, the kind of hug where the insides of his elbows mold seamlessly with the concave curves of her torso and her chin fits like a puzzle piece into the divot made by his collar bone, the kind where the weight of him leaning down and the angle at which she leans up and in cancel each other out so that there is no wobbling, no tremulous balancing on tiptoe, no physical need to fall prematurely out of it, the kind where it doesn’t matter that her blouse is riding up a little in the front or that his underarms are wet with perspiration from dancing or that she can feel the cold hard metal of his belt buckle on the bare skin of her lower abdomen, the kind where it’s okay that her upper back will be a little tight tomorrow from arching it that way or that his will be too from reaching his cheek toward the nape of her neck, the kind of hug that lasts just the right amount of time, which in this case is a few seconds longer than just the right amount of time, which is longer enough to know that it’s more than a normal hug, long enough to know that it means something, and not long enough that he or that she has to acknowledge it if one of them wanted it to mean something different.
It was the end. Maybe not the very end, but 'an' end.
Every city has their ups and downs. The longer you visit, the more downs you start to notice.
Mahler's Resurrection Symphony
The salad bed in our garden
A connection revisited