I remember dinner.

We had pasta. Oh wait. She had pasta. I had…something with chicken. And pizza. We were celebrating something. I think it was a special occasion. Or was it that we simply had the time?

But I remember dinner.

She wore a sheer peach blouse. She had on those horrid contact lenses, the colored ones. She’d press up against my side when she wasn’t twisted around to face me. Sometimes, she would lightly touch my arm. She smiled easily and listened intently. I’ve never been happier than in those two hours with her.

You see? I do remember.




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