I walked into the busy restaurant, the buzz and warmth enveloping me after the slight chill of the first breath of autumn. The waitress asked if I had a reservation. I scanned the room, my eyes coming to rest on his familiar outline. He sat at the back, in a private booth and waved at me as our gazes met. I walked towards him, smiling from ear to ear, my heart feeling lighter. Buoyed by an excitement I haven’t felt for some time.
We sat opposite one another. So much unsaid, so much to say. I haven’t seen my older lover in over a year. After he left me waiting for over and hour in that pub one autumn evening last year, I told him I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t wait for him. I was angry, I called it off. We didn’t talk again.
Until a few weeks ago when, out of the blue, he sent me an email saying how he cherished our moments together. We arranged to meet. It came at the right time. I have let go of that anger, I feel content in where I am right now. I have fallen in love with my husband again. I’m doing ok.
Seeing him again, felt like that final missing piece. Another layer has been unpeeled. So many memories of our shared intimacies, his writing, my writing. Our incredible physical union. I feel at ease with him. We talked for hours, drank red wine, ate a delicious steak, reminisced, explained, touched, stroked. The waitress smiled knowingly at us as we (he) paid and left. We walked to a hotel bar opposite and ordered a nightcap. Without the table between us and the privacy of a dark corner, we sat facing one another, tracing contours through clothes, kissing, inhaling such familiar scents and getting lost in one another.
It felt good. We parted. I returned home to my husband. He returned home to his wife and children. I think we’ve agreed to see each other again. Cautiously, tenderly, delicately. It feels good.