I'll try to explain it.

We're sitting next each other, George and I. We're both reading, I'm leaning against him, the back of my head in the place where his shoulder meets his neck. He has his arm over my shoulder too, holding my hand, we're just reading. He's reading, or rather studying, a book about a band he loves and I'm reading a story, a novel perhaps. But that's not what is important, it's the way that even though we're both totally absorbed by what we're reading, we both need to exist together, the touch of his skin against mine, the way his thumb brushes ever so slightly, unconsciously, against my hand. I can see this for years to come, living, breathing, being together. While we watch over our little son and daughter as they run around the park, chasing each other, or in that quiet moment we get when they're finally asleep. Sitting on our deep leather sofa, by the fire with our red wine (always red wine, are we addicted? :) ). We don't need any other language than the one of our bodies; so much can be said without words.