and the thing is, it was.

at times I am struck by how exquisitely enjoyable it is to be young.  to be selfish and playful and completely unprepared for what life has and is.  but those bring the best kind of nights, don't they?  

sometimes those unforgettable nights tuck into sacred early morning, and the others have gone home, and you find yourself absorbed in the man sitting next to you, legs draped over his lap.

and you talk. and talk. and talk. you talk about ties, and childhood, and childhood scars, and scars of a different genre.  you talk about things of a holy order, and all other topics of conversation that people navigate in the after-midnight hours.   it was meaty, quality conversation – the kind that caused your bare toes to curl.

he makes a self-deprecating joke, and suddenly you become aware of his hands resting above your knee.  
wait, what? how long have those been there?  

it wasn’t his nerve that stunned you so much as how natural it felt—how normal – when it should have been bold. foreign.

but there he was, talking about owls and touching your thigh like it was the easiest thing in the world.

and the thing is, it was.

so when the time came that he checked his watch and declared it to be nearly the ungodly hour of four,  you tied your shoes and pretended that you weren’t completely unraveled.