It was cold. The first cold night of the year. Forcing to the surface a nostalgia of eerie winter nights.

I called him, uncertain if he would answer.

He did.

4 hours later and my tear stained cheeks still hadn’t dried. It had been so long since we spoke that I forgot how hard he made me laugh. Uncontrollable, abdominal contracting, almost embarrassingly loud laughter. I lost my breath a few times and even snorted – he didn’t let that slide either – a joke about my laughter sending me into another fit of hysterics.

He was my first storyteller – all those years ago. Setting a scene, painting a picture. We had the perfect rhythm, he joked, I laughed. And around we went.

It felt like home. Familiar. Like a house that never needed fixing. It wasn’t long until the laughter stopped and I was in his car with his hand pinching the overspill of weight at my hips. Cupping the heavy weight of my breasts. Like he was checking to see the difference time had made on my adolescent body – which was now womanly.

This discovery wiped the smile off his face, and changed the look in his eyes, he wasn’t a boy anymore. He began to explore further until I pulled his hand away – he apologized – and then said something that I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear.

Three words. Three simple words.

I Missed You.

I missed him too.

And then it was back to it – pinching my soft parts and making me laugh so hard that no noise came out.

I think he got off on me laughing at his jokes. I think it gave him pleasure. It was like: an applause after a great performance – a standing ovation – the most sincerest form of flattery.

That was our intimacy – and our vulnerability.

The risk that I wouldn’t find him funny, and the fear that the moment I let my guard down I would fall apart.

I always found him funny, and I never fell apart.