That we met.
By coincidence or fate or fortune or whatever I don’t know.
But I do know it was at a café. A shared interest…a sign (or two in fact) that drew us together. Lemon meringue pie on our plates and Hermann Hesse in our hands, gods bless you both.
Later I only read it to impress you, you know? I wasn’t really interested in the Basques at the time, still aren’t really. When I spilt coffee and you kissed me hard I knew it had worked. I quietly thanked the Spanish revolutionists while my head spun and my lips tingled.
At the airport I listened to nearby conversations. How could he have paid that much for a TV in the seventies? You were in another row and people stood in the way, I just wanted to see you is all, who were you talking to?
The TV guy was fucking loud. Why stand up and talk that loudly in front of so many people, was he trying to impress you? Your beauty spoke way louder that that verbose idiot anyway. I told my neighbour he must be in sales, apparently not funny enough to warrant a reply. The salesman turned around and I laughed. What a beer gut…dickhead.
I assumed the interference through the speaker system was our call as everyone started moving off. Were you going to wait? Or had you forgotten about me already, smitten by someone whose confidence is matched only by his girth. I struggled to put my shoes back on, fucking laces. I remembered the 90’s fondly for so many reasons, Velcro straps included.
Then you were at my side, your mouth so close to me I could feel your warm breath on my neck, more tingling.
Look, you said. I looked but couldn’t see past the crowd, rocking as one on slow motion legs.
Look! This time the word was guided by a long slender finger. I followed it frantically; a girl had nice jeans on but assumed it was something else. Then I saw it, on the cafeteria wall, a large triangle of white cloud resting on a land of gold.
Lemon meringue pie.
It was another sign.