07 November 2016 nonfiction, "A Love Note (4)"

When I think of you, I think of sitting in the restaurant of a bar called Maxie’s. You took my face in your hands, and across the pitcher of beer, you told me with your eyes that you felt something for me, deeply.

I’ve felt the pull of sex, but I’ve never felt such butterflies as when you kissed me lightly so I would leave your room. I still remember the way that it felt.

I’m sorry that my ex-boyfriend wasn’t as hard to leave as you were. I can’t imagine what pulled me towards you so quickly. You’re not the only one who has pulled me into his lap in the back of a cab car. And when you would kiss me after smoking a cigarette, it didn’t taste like anything except you.

I have to wonder what you would think if you knew me now instead of then. We’ve never been on the same page; I know that in a way I never knew then.

I hope your French is still better than mine.