"But I know you're here," I replied, swallowing and blinking back my tears. "You showed me this city - the place I've grown to love. So many things about this city to me, are you," I explained with unwavering honesty. Desperately, I tried to lasso the crazy thoughts running wild in my head. He stared at me with his perfect, deep blue eyes, giving me time to collect myself. I turned away, and from my side I felt him pulling me into him. He was warm, thin but strong, and familiar like we had never been apart. 

"I'm sorry. It's okay," he whispered me, continuing to hold me. He buried his head in my hair and breathed in. "You smell different," he said. "I smell different too."

"I know. I noticed." 

"You did?" he questioned, playfully trying to lighten the mood.

I leaned towards him and pretended to smell him. When I tried to lean back he pulled me in and put his cheek next to mine. I could feel my heart thumping loudly. I felt his too. Suddenly, I was transported back to the quad. It was the summer of 2001, and I was eighteen.  The sky was perfectly clear that night, and we lay in the grass discussing constellations and what lies beyond the stars.  "Close your eyes," he told me and took my hands into his. "Just concentrate on how I feel and my blood flow." Is this guy crazy? I remember thinking. Blood flow? But as we stood facing each other, hand-in-hand, I could feel him. It was like we were spinning higher and higher, and there couldn't possibly be another soul on earth except for ours.  

His cheek was warm against mine, and I noticed that our lips were dangerously close to one another. He was breathing harder and my heart was racing. Neither of us paid attention to the fact that the bartenders and waitstaff were likely looking at us thinking we were either stoned or desperately needed to get a room. It wasn't that. It was something more, and when he slowly moved his lips over mine, for a second, I stopped breathing. I couldn't breathe. My mind was blank, and eventually I pulled back and gasped for air. A smile spread over his face and through his blue eyes. He took both hands to either side of my face pulling me towards him, and he kissed me. 

Oh no, I thought.  This must be the best feeling in my life.

Then my mind went blank, and for what seemed liked hours, I didn't think anything. I just sat with him, touching him and kissing him. As I began to regain conciousnesss, his lips pleaded with mine, but I knew that we had to go our separate ways. There is too much vulnerability, too much history, and too many emotions to let this go on. I pulled away and looked at my watch. 11:58 p.m. "I'm going to turn into a pumpkin," I said. 

"The carriage turns into the pumpkin," he replied, smirking.

"You know what I mean," I protested. He pulled me off my bar stool in between his legs and brushed my hair out of my face. 

"Can we get our check?" he asked the bartender.  I looked around and noticed that the restaurant had nearly cleared out. The bussers were clearing and wiping the tables, but it felt like we had just gotten there. He pulled me into his chest to show me that he understood and kissed the top of my forehead, holding me there until our check arrived. When I stood up to put my coat on, he took it from me and tucked me in, pulling my hair out and smoothing it down over my back. Few men think to pull you hair out. A couple years ago, I was approached by an older gentlemen in the lounge at a Ritz Carlton. When my group was eager to move on, the man held out my coat, tucked me in and gently pulled my hair out. It reminded me of him, and I remember longingly staring at this man for a minute before I thanked him and quickly walked away to catch up with my friends.

I turned to him, searching his face for what I did not know. "Shall we?" he asked. He opened the glass door, and I walked through into the misty cold. "I didn't know it was supposed to rain," I said.

"I don't think anyone did," he replied and put his arm around me to shield me from the wet. We walked like that down 7th Street. I ducked my head into his shoulder to protect my hair from the rain. He covered my head with his opposite arm and kissed my cheek.

This is not real. This cannot be real.

I've noticed that in this life, you come across people who know what you are thinking without a word spoken. It's what I love and what I hate about him. He must have sensed my disbelief because all at once, he pulled me into a doorway, out of the now sprinkling rain, and kissed me. I was pressed against the door, not thinking about the fact  that someone could attempt to exit the building at any given moment. He lifted my left leg and placed it around him, holding my waist tightly with his free hand. Instictively, I grabbed the back of his head, pulling his hair through my fingers as his lips moved from mine down my neck.

I'm going to wake up tomorrow and this is going to be the best dream I have ever had, I assured myself.

When he finished kissing my neck, he moved back up to my lips and kissed my entire face. Then, as if he knew I was fading back into reality, he slowly pulled away from me and stared at me. He said my full name.

"Yes," I answered. But he didn't say anything; he just kept staring. I returned my foot  to the floor and smoothed the back of my hair. Shaking my head, I moved out of the doorway and back into the rain. He followed, reluctantly, but I knew that if I didn't stop now we would inflict a pain much worse than what we already had in store for the next few days, weeks, likely months.

"Okay," he conceded and wrapped his arm around me again.  "I will leave you at Corrin Street," he said assuredly as if he had to declare it aloud so we both knew there was a finite end. We walked in silence for a few minutes and when it came time to part, he faced me, waiting. I walked towards him, and we kissed again. Looking back, I should've stayed with him a little longer. Had I realized that it could be the last time I touched him like that, I would have stayed and savored the moment. But anxiety began to creep up, creating an urge to flight. Leave now in case this is actually real, my mind told me. One more time, I looked at him. "Don't get mugged," I said jokingly referencing his earlier warning about how the city crime is escalating, and I turned and walked away.

I couldn't decide if I wanted to cry or scream or sleep until I wiped the memory of this evening out of my mind forever. Everything was a blur, and I hardley remember walking home, talking to my roommate and her friend and getting ready for bed.  Sleep came easily as I was emotionally exhausted and confused.  Normally my evenings are filled with vivid fantastical events, but I slept without dreams.

When the dim sun peaked through my curtain, I immediately sat up. Was it a real? I asked myself. I took inventory of my room. Leggings on the floor - check. Sweater crumpled on top of my hamper - check. Booties and socks scattered - check. So I definetely got undressed and into bed in a fury, which meant I was eager to escape reality. Maybe it was real, but how would I know for sure? I showered and dressed pushing the images and memories from my mind. If this was real, I needn't dwell on it all day long. There was absolutely nothing to be done, and I refused to emotionally torture myself by ananlyzing every last detail. That periously flawed system may work on my other love interests, people who don't mean anything, but for better or for worse, it doesn't work on him. I know him better than anyone else, making my contstant analysis and gathering of everyone else's opinions futile. What happened or didn't happen is mine to own, and I will act cautiously and responsibly for once in my relationship-laden life.

Later in the day my roommate confirmed my evening by an SMS recount of the frazzled and dreamy state I appeard in when I arrived home past midnight. She said I mumbled his name a few times and started and stopped a hard-to-follow story before ushering my Siamese cat into my room and turning off my light. Several times she inquired into what exactly had happened, but I felt that telling anyone would be breaking our unspoken secret. Was last night a secret? Our secret?

Normally, I go around blabbing to everyone every last mundane detail of my so-called love life. My coworkers ask me about the multitude of men in my life refering to them by amusing nicknames.  There's the "ex-bartender" and "Converse" and "triple button guy" (don't worry, he never got a second date) and "old man hands" and "fake Italian." But I refused to reduce him to a nickname, and the only way to prevent that was not to mention him or utter a single word of the evening. 

However, I couldn't escape my spastic nature and needed a tiny bit of advice regarding how this evening would or would not affect the rest of my life. So I asked a friend who hadn't known me when I dated him if I was obligated to mention my whimsical evening to the guy I was currently seeing.  "Absolutely not," she adamantly stated. "Whatever did or did not happen is none of his business.  For now, neither of these men are your boyfriend." I was thankful that she advised me without inquiring into every last detail.

But I'm slightly high-strung and somewhat of a control freak, so all day long I yearned for a conclusion. I knew I could not call him and desperately tell him how I was willing to sacrafice the life I spent years creating so that we could be together...because there was too much at stake. I loved him.  And those words were absolutely not coming out of my mouth. I vowed to myself that nothing would leave my lips for one month and one week. That is the timeline I gave myself - the conclusion I created. If I still feel these overwhelming, frighteningly desperate feelings in one month and one week, then I will reach out to him. Not a minute before. It may seem dramatic, but without a structured timeline I will undoubtedly drive myself to the brink of insanity. One month and one week.

That night I, for the first time since I moved to the city, I took our photo album off of my shelf and hid it in the very back of my closet. I had left it there for aestheic reasons and hadn't opened it in at least a year, likely longer. But now I couldn't trust myself not to cheat. One month and one week, I repeated in my head. Then I pulled out my journal and wrote the date, one month and one week from today, in a new entry. I briefly recalled the night to ensure I remembered the important details - not that I ever forget anything - but to ensure that, should I die tomorrow, someone else would know that last night existed. (Although that plan was inherently flawed because I've requested all of journals burned without reading.) He would know though. That would be enough for me.

I rarely pray because I never really know to what or to whom I am praying, but the unprecendented vow I made to myself warranted some sort of seal. So I closed my eyes and asked that something greater and stronger than me give me the strength to keep my mind from wandering back to that night, to keep me focused on my work, and grant me the grace to accept whatever fate my future may hold. Then I squeezed my eyes tighter and drifted to sleep.

That was one week ago.