Just Like Kids
“What is intimacy for you?” my friend asked as we strolled around the lake, chatting about everything and nothing. My first thought went to sex. But then I remembered times when my body was entangled with another, yet my mind was kilometres away. I started recalling moments when I truly felt intimacy and surprised myself with how many I could think of, and by their simplicity.
February 2024, in a small town in the French countryside:
As the dinner comes to an end, everyone starts cleaning up: some of us move around the kitchen, balancing beers in one hand and dirty dishes in the other. Others scrub pots and pans, while the rest clear the table. An old French rap song plays softly in the background, and the last rays of sunlight spill into the living room, giving it a warm orange colour.
The six of us have known each other for years, spending every summer at scouts camps together, sharing laughs, adventures, secrets, and dreams. Years have passed by and summer camps have stopped, yet we still meet regularly for gateway weekends and trips. This time, we are at our friend’s vacation house in the countryside. The multiple bedrooms are packed with children’s books, board games, and old blankets that smell like dust. Family pictures cover the walls, and a prayer stool standing on the staircase reminds us all of our Catholic upbringings.
As beer caps fly around and bags of crisps are torn open, our friend Capu takes over the dining table: she prepared a game for us. It’s a mystery murder party. She sorts the different papers and clues, and sends someone upstairs to fetch her bag. The rest of us wait impatiently. Finally, she gives us our roles: a rich widow, an heir, a gardener, a priest, an alchemist, a servant, and even a beggar. She brought costumes as well. We dress up and read our characters’ descriptions, everyone giggling and voices overlapping in a joyful mess. The game begins with a play.
We improvise a stage in the living room: the armchair becomes the priest’s chair, the door is the servants’ entrance, the window the staples, and so on. We start acting, reading our lines from our phones and taking it extremely seriously: the widow talks in a high-pitched voice, the servants bow and apologize excessively, and the priest gives his benedictions. It’s absolute chaos: as we take turns on stage, we applaud and boo and scream and laugh hysterically. We perform sheerly for our own entertainment, delighted by our ridiculousness. Just like carelessness and passionate kids, we are having fun in its purest form.
Later that night, after the game has come to an end and conversations have exhausted us, we move upstairs and get ready to go to sleep. In the bathroom, my friend hands me her toothpaste with a knowing grin. “I guess you didn’t bring one”, she teases. She’s right, of course. I take it, laughing, grateful.
When my friend asked me what intimacy means to me, this weekend came to mind. Because intimacy is bringing toothpaste for a friend, knowing she always forgets hers. It’s asking about someone’s mom, not out of politeness, but because you genuinely care. It’s saying, “Just go through my stuff,” when a friend needs a hairbrush. It’s making a Nutella toast for someone, careful not to spread too much because you remember she doesn’t like it that way.
Intimacy is playing games like kids and loving every second of it.