About almost four years ago?
Do you remember?
I remember, here’s what I remember.
Us meeting was unbelievable.
I really couldn’t believe my good fortune.
You liked me, too.
Something must be wrong.
Can’t finger what.
Too good to be true.
Should just pinch myself.
I mean, something must be wrong with you.
I’m watching you sniff poppers, snort cocaine, and dance.
You're having fun?
You’re very beautiful.
You’re very elegant.
You’re very polite.
You’re very wonderful.
You love Al Pacino.
You love Jennifer Lopez.
You love smoked fish.
You love stinky cheese.
(Does she sound like a caged bird? By no means!)
You’re hardly communicative.
Palpable, my mother says your anxiety is palpable.
I agree with my mother.
I need to buy you flowers.
Your mother says I need to buy you flowers.
I can’t catch a break.
(Here’s what I remember: we couldn’t catch a break.)
You’re wearing cute boots.
You’re writing an essay about ethics.
You’re the best thing before Christmas.
It’s that time of year, and I am in love with you.
We talk about God.
I am emphatically denying His existence.
You’re saying maybe.
We talk about the British boarding schools you attended, salad dressing, BDSM.
I think you have great skin.
I need therapy.
Then, I need more therapy.
You do as well.
Eventually, we’ll need treatment all over again.