We were talking, he and I, like we always did, of ideals and existentiality, of hopes and fears, life and death, and other things that swim in the deepest parts of our selves. It was the two of us, alone, in the dark, our legs dangling from the bed and our fingers intertwined. Neither of us could say how the conversation started. We never could. But, start, it did, and down a steep, corkscrew path it led us.
The fears always tugged us deep, near to drowning. But, clinging to each other in our darkness, we whispered our way through. We spoke of grotesque imaginings that pounced on us, unawares. We talked of the pleasant surprises when empty fields of grain didn’t reveal hordes of flickering shadows in the fleeting moonlight. I told him of my goblins and he told me of his gremlins. We traded ghosts and shadows, demons and angels. We laughed, heartily unafraid, as we pulled our feet onto the relative safety of the bed.
Then, he whispered of the darker places in his soul. The places no one had seen. He sighed and longed to know he wasn’t alone.
I, too, lived in the barred, cold pockets deep inside. We laughed again, to know we were the same. We moved on, to the silly secrets and corny jokes we’d hoarded for just this occasion. Our fingers played together, twined above our heads.
But our feet, our feet stayed on the bed.