billions of options

and one choice

She’s sleeping as I write this.

We met twenty years ago this evening.

It was a brisk November night. I had a thing - I didn’t wear jackets, only sweaters.

When she knocked on the door to my flat, I burst down the stairs to greet her.

Hi, I’m Jim, I shook her hand, cocked my head and said, Wait here. I’ll be right back. I need another sweater.

My plan for our date was simple. We’d walk and talk. If things were bah, I’d merely run away. That seemed more reasonable than enduring another painful internet dating ‘dinner and a movie’. I didn’t have a cell phone and that kind of engagement seemed like too much of a commitment. Though she said she ran marathons, I figured that I’d be able to run fast enough to get away in a sprint.

We talked. We laughed. She wore red lipstick - but not too red. It sorta had a bit of purple. I’m not sure. Either way her lips looked pretty damn kissable. Grapes maybe? They were refined. Her face had a certain nobility to it that I wasn’t certain how to take. She seem…