This one would probably be best described as the things I miss, when in love. It is the little things after all, that seem to come back into our mind when we wish to remember. When we haven’t actively put memory out of our mind, it can be quite pleasant to recall the beauty of engagement.
Walking in the rain one night, we circled around a city block, occasionally finding shelter, not to hold one another, only to find some sort of refuge from the rain, both like teenagers, hesitating to bring ourselves any closer to one another, just fleeting imagination we both were afraid to share. It wasn’t until minutes before we got into our cars to depart, she told me she wished I would have just grabbed her and kissed her. Of course, I drove home in tears not knowing how to deal with the sudden confusion I felt in my heart, knowing our spontaneity was beginning to wane. Or perhaps it had already.
Another walk after having coffee together, we found ourselves in a square, less romantic really just a parking lot in early winter, but there were windows everywhere – we could have imagined it to be some European plaza if we allowed our sense of imagery run away with our hearts. We found an open passage in an alley that would eventually take us back to our cars. Walking into this little hovel, we noticed dark, perhaps abandoned windows all around us, and a high picket fence, where then I did press myself again her in a moment of passion and we both fantasized living in the stucco shelter nearby where we might make love well into the night, the morning, the life we could lead together.
Then there is the simple gesture of being together, sharing a coffee with one another and the smile she would have in her expression every time I would take a pen, a pin, an object and punch a bigger hole in the breather of my coffee lid, it became an endearment that I liked to do – the reason so the coffee would flow better of course – but really just being able to put a smile on her face.
Finally, standing in a sort of mock tower in a park one early evening in winter, imagining just how sensual our illusions could be, alone, wilderness, in love.
Just the little things I guess perhaps make up real love stories.