As we walk into the restaurant we agreed on, it feels strange. This is as close to a date as we have had. We get seated and review the menu.Christmas has come with getting to be more open with you. We order and spend too much time talking so that the food chills before it is eaten. All the while, hands stroke hands and arms. Occasionally a tear is wiped away. There is a lot of weight with us.
You excuse yourself from the table and the waitress comes over. “How long have you been together?” I have no idea how to answer that question. “Not long,” I reply. The bill is paid when you get back and we decide to go to our place. It feels like our place. In this city where I feel an outsider, only one place frames your beauty adequately, a roof.
It’s not far from here to there and outside the restaurant, I kiss you deeply. The need and hunger in me is met equally with yours. My hand travels down your arm. I kiss you again, my teeth clamping onto your lip. I feel your body sag just a tad as you sigh. The kissing and touching, simply an amuse bouche to a entree I crave, but cannot be served today. I start the car and your hand finds my leg. I smile at how naturally touches come.