Nighttime has settled around us and the cool air is just humid enough to poke through our clothing. But we are warm anyway, basking in the sweetened glow of each others’ smiling faces. Your bleach-blond hair reflects the light dancing forth from ancient streetlights while wisps of wind find their way into the flaps of our pockets and collars. A few dim lights glow from the windows of the three- or four-story apartments above.
Our streetside seats at this bistro have long been warmed from the hours we’ve spent here–most of the waiters and waitresses have gone home for the night, and those remaining are cleaning up. But the table is ours for so long as we want it. A few shadows dance around the walls in the old urban district of this city in the Southeast of France. The cobblestone streets meander wherever they lead, in that interesting way that knows nothing of squareness.
Your eyes are wide; your lips are glistening and red and fascinating! Our conversation tonight wanders from every topic to every other, smoothly and naturally. For a time, nothing exists save our respective consciousnesses and their interaction–their relationship–as though we are in an ethereal tunnel of loving friendship where the doldrums of daily life can’t distract and interrupt us. Familiar.
Some friends of mine appear just down the street. This is expected–the next part of my night is with them, but also means our meeting of minds and bodies must come to a close. Standing from the table, you wish me a good evening, or express thanks for our time together. We set to part and pause momentarily to share a single, purposeful, and loving embrace. I can feel your lipstick transfer smearingly onto my lips, and as we separate, your eyes sparkle me tidings of farewell.
As I walk down the street towards my friends, I look back at you and see that you are looking back at me. It seems the night is still young…