Tonight was the perfect night for romance. We ran out of the pouring rain into a quaint little cafe downtown. The lights were low with soft soul and jazz playing in the background. The hostess sat us at a cozy little table where the warm glow of candlelight danced on our faces, and the waitress returned with two glasses of red wine. Pinot noir and zinfandel. The entire room looked, smelled, and tasted like Paris. La ville d'amour.
It was beautiful, but it wasn't perfect because tonight isn't romantic. It's dinner with my mom. As much as I enjoyed being with my mother, every once in a while I would take a sip of wine, close my eyes, sway to the music, and dream of being here with him. Him, the man I don't know yet.
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