Belle to J, 8 July 2008
I remember the back room of your house, the one with the fireplace, sofa, and a wing chair or two. What a cozy room. As evenings spent at your house wore on, your parents would eventually retire to their room, and the exhaling moment would arrive when you and I were finally left to ourselves, in the darkness, lights out, but perhaps some firelight and the last hiss of logs. We would lie together on the worn, narrow sofa in each other's arms and kiss for hours, and sometimes we'd doze off like that. And then it would be the horrible witching hour when we had to rouse ourselves so you could drive me home. I hated those curfews. Thinking of them now brings back that horrible sense of oppression, of having to leave the paradise of your arms. Painful.
I remember the sensation of your kisses...