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Gone only a day, even now I'm remembering with distant fondness the giggles we left sitting on the shelves at the toy store like some immaterial Winnie the Pooh whose baby-toy softness makes tactile hedonism the most compelling future.

Try saying that three times fast.

Dark and stormy nights aside, I really ought to admit that I am smitten. How else could it have turned out? It's the sort of domestic romance I live for, and you filled the role wearing Donna Reed's apron and Enid's wit. What more could a homebody like me want (except maybe a fireplace)?

Of course it's ill-advised, and I expect nothing more than a lingering want and a toothache from the foil-wrapped, sweet memories you left on my kitchen counter. Even so, I'm enjoying the fuzzy admiration brought on by easy intimacy and effortless conversation. I remember who I used to be, and you bring out just a little of that in me. Not the sulky, broken boy, but the one with the sharp wit and sharper pen. He wrote you a letter last night in which he skirted the issue and asked diversionary questions. You will, no doubt, see through it. Being kind, you will say nothing, but only smile to yourself and bathe in the veiled flattery, perhaps with tea candles and the scent of lavender or jasmine.

Outcomes aside, I can't remember when I last felt this way: so confident, so whimsical, childlike, or purely satisfied. And yet, I can't say why. Cum hoc ergo propter hoc, no? It had to be you.

Thank you. See you again soon?