Intimacy is not sex, is it not love, it is not even touching. Intimacy is connection. It can be a foot resting on the chair of a partner, of washing and drying dishes in tandem, a look on the subway or the brush of a sleeve against another in passing. Intimacy is created not through the ordinary of daily exchanges but through the extraordinary, that which is out of place. It is the hair of a stranger playing across your face, fingers touching from check to pen to cashier, two people sitting on the floor and surrounded by those in chairs. It is the quick look that acknowledges the other person out of bounds with you, both of you vibrating with the secret knowledge of your transgressions, shared, connected, intimate.