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The lights of the freeway whiz by as I drive towards the city. A light fog covers the tops of the glass towers tickling the clouds, and cast a glow over our destination. I look to my right and see you there, almost as if in a dream. It's been a month of Sundays and beyond, when I could last touch your arm and feel the warmth of your flesh there. But it's true. Twenty four months have passed, and it's another summer night in the City of Angeles, with you by my side. You're sitting there, so handsome in your crisp shirt and jeans. The strength of your arms evident beneath the short sleeves, and it's in those arms I've dreamed of finding myself so many nights.

The lights are brighter as we approach, and I turn off the freeway towards our destination. Once there, we enter through the dark oak doors. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the room, illuminated only by the candles on the hanging candle chandeliers and the thick candles lined along each table, with mirrors sharing their light to the world. We're seated at the dinner bar, with candles hanging above us. The restaurant is a din with hum of conversation, and the light jazz coming from a trio of Glenn Miller-aged musicians. A piano, cello, and acoustic guitar are their ladies of the night, and I am yours. Your tanned face and features are so soft for me to look upon as we settle on the seats, waiting for our table. I turn to face you, and you take my hand, resting it with yours on my knee. You just want to touch me, as if unsure of my being there. Perhaps you've waited to touch me for so long, you don't want to let go. I blush at this, and you smile at my ...

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