Dinner

It's her birthday and I'm taking her for a dinner. I don't have to — I just want to. Perhaps to show her that I care. Or, more accurately, to make myself sure that I still care. I used to love her once and — as usually through my roller-coaster ride — to a degree I still do.

A fancy Italian restaurant, surely one of the best I know in this city. She loves it from the moment we walk in. I smile at her and I talk to make her laugh. Leaving my iPhone in my pocket, this is the best combination I can provide.

It goes well. Very well. She's relaxed, loosening. And we talk openly, as openly as possible between two former lovers having fun.

Then, suddenly, she breaks. You should find somebody you can love and not just be with somebody you can be with and be seen with. She starts crying.

I hear her well. I grew older. I grew comfortable, if not altogether comfortably numb. I do not feel like being out there anymore, grew tired of going through the same escapades over the time. Do not feel the urge to change.

Within few minutes, we're back, laughing and chatting as if that awkward moment never happened. It might have sunk, submerged deep underneath in our minds, I cannot feel it anymore. At least for a while.

Then later on, alone with my thoughts, it comes back with a vengeance. People tend to crave for love. And some do for commitment, too.

I wonder. If she were only five years older back then. I'll never know. It's too late. I'm falling asleep puzzled.