We go out for dinner, just friends.

I am so relieved and happy

That we finally reached the point

Where we can be together

Without awkward pauses or shifting gazes.

I am enjoying the evening

When I start to get a headache.

Then he stands and looks down at me

With total adoration.

He places his large warm hands on my face,

Touching my hair, leaning towards my upturned face.

I feel like a girl in love again.

He gently kisses my forehead,

Right where I had the headache.

He kisses me for a second too long

And leaves the table,

Probably to pay the bill.

I sit there, astounded, in love again,

And mad at him for it.

It took too much to get over him before.

It’s not fair.

He had his chance and proved

He couldn’t love me the way I needed to be loved.

I feel bubbly and warm

And uncomfortable and resentful

And content.

How does he do this?

I gaze up at the painting behind our booth.

For a long time I simply stare.

He returns, and after some time

He asks me what I’m thinking.

I tell him how I wonder what the painting looked like

When it was only halfway finished.

Before I can elaborate,

He tells me what he thinks about

Where the artist started

And which details were afterthoughts.

He is saying everything I thought.

The surreal night ends uneventfully,

With me writing in my journal

And him dreaming of me.