Perhaps I should be ashamed, says the back of my brain, as I reach out for reciprocity. Perhaps I should fall down, check myself in to the lost and found, stay there peacefully until claimed. Kick my heels, properly tagged, next to a small box of forgotten apples, two overdue library books, a rain ruined Klimpt print, and wait.
This part of my brain is obviously insane.
Instead, when I am nervous, I want them to be nervous too. I wish us to match like a pair of jittery, colourful addictions, ready to dribble words the way a cork pops from bottle of something bubbly, ballistic and driven, dangerous in the wrong hands. I want us to assume and feel unsafe doing so, to tinker, to rewrite boundaries like history and we're the last ones standing. I want to be saturated in it, that understanding, that shared, halting drive, the cartilage landscape of unknown territory. Feel the certainty of it swelling in my chest, devouring my entrenched dragons of well trained doubt, dispelling the honeymoon aura of dread, and trust where I stand enough to take root in the sediment we've accrued, tall as a birch, as practically imperishable as the same.
It's primitive how I find the discovery of shared fear to be soothing. It triggers something deeper than sleep, more important than the shape of bones under skin, like being able to see the basic geometry of need, the invisible pillars upon which we build our waking dreams. I am reassured instantly as somewhere in my genes a fatal desire to know is fed. Such moments are a gift for which I do not know how to say thank you. They remind me of fire escapes in the same way they represent a way down from a burning building to solid ground. Effective, quaint, and incredible.