The day I met you it terrified me. You ordered your drink before me and when I heard you mutter the words "whiskey on the rocks" I couldn't help but laugh a little. You, drinking whiskey? When you turned and your eyes laid on mine I realized that beneath the sparkly dress and winged eyeliner you were absolutely amazing. Before you could mention my laughing at you the bartender asked what I wanted and as I ordered a bottle of champagne you absolutely lost it. You threw your head back and gasped and rolled your eyes. You were straightforward and awful. You were ****** and full of yourself. You were ******* beautiful. I followed you back to your table and sat down without asking permission. We talked a lot. I remember you said your favorite song was Piano Man and that you hated champagne. But as you said that you took my glass from me and giggled as the bubbles tickles the tip of your nose. Six months later we were laying on the hood of my car staring at the black sky and you commented on the fact none of the constellations were visible as you sipped a glass of the same brand of whiskey you had that first night and I didn't hear a thing besides the way your lips moved and no matter how hard I focused none of the words formed anything rational in my mind and that's the exact moment I told you I loved you. I remember the way you smirked and kicked your lips before taking a breath and telling me that I've been in love with you since the moment I saw you order your drink and you were right.

I'm not sure why I'm telling you this. Now, sixty years later, I mean. Why now. Why didn't I agree with you then. Why can't I write what I should be and why am I writing about this instead. Why am I staring into your tired eyes discussing everything and nothing and why didn't I listen that night on the hood of my car. I do know what you said though. I figured it out years later. You were saying how although the sky was black the bubbles in my champagne almost looked the same as a variety of constellations all jumbled together. I know you won't remember this tomorrow. You don't remember anything anymore. Not that you need to. I remember that you like whiskey on the rocks and love the way champagne looks like a miniature universe of stars and planets and designs and I remember that you loved when I wrote about you out loud rather than on paper. How many more days do you think I'll be able to sneak past the nurses into your room with glasses full of ice and a typewriter with no ink so I can try to make you remember again. C.a.l