Love

When the band breaks into a rendition of The Beatles' All You Need Is Love, I lean over and whisper in his ear, "Do you bristle when you hear that?" I am teasing, of course. Teasing him, because what he does for a living is listen to people and help them get to the root of the issues they are faced with. Precisely the kind of issues that would make one believe that all you needed in this life was love, or money, or food, or booze, or sex.

I am also doing what those in his business would call projecting. Because, of course, if I were in his shoes I would certainly bristle at the idea that all you needed was love - no matter how brilliantly and tunefully The Beatles put it. And surely if I  would oppose, why wouldn't he?

He laughs. One of those big, warm laughs, which trails into a smile.

"There are many types of love," he says, "Love has many depths."

I narrow my eyes at him a little, fighting a losing battle against a forming smile. My attempt at flirty banter melts away. I am bested. I find myself somewhere between suspicious and impressed. Suspicious, because his words are elegant and romantic. Impressed, because his words are insightful and somehow ring true.

This is when he reaches for my hand and pulls me close.

I snuggle into his chest. I smile. I smile because I know he's somehow managed to get to me. For whatever reason, in this moment at least, he's said exactly the right words to me.

He's somehow managed to find his way to the door of this fortress where I keep my heart. He's run through the forest, he's swam through the mote. He's avoided the alligators. He stands at the door way of the fortress.

And, for whatever reason, in that moment at least, I choose to let him in.