The Intangible Force of an 11pm Snack

I fell in love with you over a grilled cheese. Do you remember that summer night? A dry wind blew through the open windows of the house, smelling like jasmine and sage. We were up late on your couch, talking about our families, our jobs, our dreams. We learned we were from the same city — the same suburb. We liked music that was sad, TV that made us laugh, and food that told a story.

We’d both grown up alone — only children. The difference? I was asked to be seen, not heard. You were allowed to take up space. But as our voices weaved between the sounds of crickets chirping and distant cars honking, I felt like someone could finally hear me.

I still found it difficult to look at the family photos on the walls, the dog by the fireplace. Suburban perfection that I’d never experienced. Just mom throwing her glass against the wall, dad storming out to a bar and getting drunk. The smell of loneliness was like cigarettes.

As the night lengthened, the summer heat mellowed into the warmth of your knee pressed into mine. You kissed me on that couch — the dog became jealous, put a paw on your arm — then you asked if I needed anything before we went to sleep.

I needed our heads on your pillows, our dreams intertwining like our feet under the covers. We wandered into your bedroom, then you laughed as my stomach grumbled.

You offered to get me a snack, something easy, something simple. My parents taught me not to ask for things, to settle for the bare minimum.

“Anything’s fine,” I said, hoping for a granola bar and some water.

In the kitchen, you frowned in the light of the fridge. Your blue-gray eyes traced the shelves through the half-open door. You pulled out slices of cheese.

I said, “Really, I’m fine with some nuts.” Anxiety swirled in my gut.

Shaking your head at me, you set a frying pan on the stove and began melting butter — like it was easy, like it was simple.

I was raised to be small, to be quiet, to be numb. Guilt choked my tongue as you buttered two slices of bread, placed the cheese on it, and set the sandwich in the sizzling butter on the pan. But as the smell of butter and bread made my mouth water, you turned to me, catching the worry in my eyes.

You wrapped your arms around my neck and said, “It’s just a grilled cheese. I’m happy to make one for you — anytime.”

As we stood there, watching the bread become crisp and golden, you kissed my lips and flipped the bread — like it was nothing.

Then you turned off the stove, plated the sandwich, and cut it into triangles. I felt warm, safe.

I took a bite, and all I could taste was you.