“It’s the simplest thing when we think about it,” his eyes in animated conflict, trying their best not to spoil the dream his lips were about to tell, “how easily we can make this work, just like breathing; it’s the most necessary things, like eating, breathing, loving, that don’t even take any effort at all when we do them right. It’s only when we hit upon a bumpy road we even notice that we’re doing these things. It’s not until you get a cold that you think about your breathing. It’s not until your throat is sore that you start questioning your appetite. And love flows easily, as easily as this, only when we forget about tomorrow and just drift with it.”
She buried her head in the depths of his chest, trying both to listen to his heart, to where all that romantic nonsense came from, and to tear it out before it all became too much, would become too real for them to escape this thing they had. She felt his hands playing with the strands of her hair, turning them around as if examining their degree of reality.
“There’s this philosopher,” he said, as he so often said, “who claims that something’s reality is determined by our ability to sense it. That my hands are my hands because I can see them and use them.” He turned his right hand around before his eyes before letting it fall to the center of her back. “But I don’t think he quite appreciated how different that makes the world for each person, depending on what they sense.” His hand moving in circles on her back, her arms starting to grip him in a tight hug. “Because surely I’m sensing a very real thing in this world right now, love, that only you and I can feel. I mean, sure, other people can feel love, but they won’t feel this love, not like we do.”
She tilted her head upwards, catching his gaze down upon her. Her legs moved, her arms moved, her face moved up right in front of his, matching his smile. “Let’s teach your philosopher about love,” she said.