It must be thirty years ago, while I was at university and before I met my wife, when we were returning to my lodgings in a taxi following a birthday meal, and you leaned over and kissed me,
That evening was the last and only time you shared my bed and let me kiss you in return. Perhaps it was your brief flirtation with reckless emotions, I have no idea, but afterwards you displayed that canny awareness that marks those who are ambitious and with a sense of who might help them on their journey: I was not one of those people.
Now you walk among the great and good and are decorated for your efforts while I remain lost in thought and imagination, writing books to eke out a living, locked in a marriage based on stoic disappointment. I place your person in my stories so that we can kiss once more, and I can have you can look into my eyes and find fulfilment.
My wife, a non-romantic who has no knowledge of the episode, shrugs at my naiveté and appetite for sentiment, but I, and now you, know that all I’m writing is our history as I wish it might have been.
In that attic called your memory, amongst the awards and recognition’s you have gained, the travels and adventures, and the causes about which you speak so passionately in the newspapers I always wondered if you ever recalled our moment together yet here I am holding a letter from you in my hand?