[This entry, for obvious reasons, is restricted.]

I never expected to have anyone like you in my life. Our story is as improbable as it is salacious, and while I may not be able to talk about it honestly with everyone I know, it still matters to me more than I think you have ever realized.

I knew your name before I knew you personally, and much to my embarrassment, the first time we actually met, I got your name wrong.  My mortification at getting the details wrong -- I, who prided myself on getting the details right! -- meant that I took extra time to talk with you.

I have photos of that meeting, and it's funny to think I can trace our friendship back to that very day, your hair and shirt contrasting against the brick as our voices traced through the names of people we had in common.

We were strangers to each other, can you imagine that?  Us?  Strangers!  Since then, our lives have intertwined to a level that I never dreamed possible; in the years since it has become difficult to tell my story with any level of true honesty without speaking of you.  Even better, the stories of our adventures are the kind that would sell paperback novels -- except that I don't think either of us have written about any of them.

ANY of them.

Ever.

You were the first woman I ever loved.

I don't remember when I knew, but I remember where I knew, and it was a moment of sensory overload condensing down into utter simplicity.  The sheets were yellow and the fan was on, and my hand drifted lazily across you.  A thought made gesture but left unspoken:  you are gold and I am pink, and we are as gloriously different as we are absolutely alike, and I would not trade you for anything.

We should have had absolutely nothing in common; from appearance to background to education, and yet we did -- temperament, outlook, sense of humor, taste in men ... You made me laugh and you taught me tea, and I wished for your hair and your ability to wear heels, and you wanted my diminutive height.

We are devilish in the dark.

We know what happens when hotel rooms are left unlocked, know a lot of each other's tricks, know things about each other that would probably get us arrested in more conservative states, but when I think about you, I think of two things.

Scene one, fast-forward.  It was not a happy day for you.  I do not like remembering that part, but instead choose to remember how the day ended.  We both needed a friend that night, and so we finished the night crashed out in someone else's bedroom, me on one bed, you on the other.  We turned out the light and we talked and we cried.  We talked our way out of our issues and back into laughter, and my last memory of the night was reaching over from my bed to yours to stroke your hair, over and over, tip to tail, as we talked ourselves to sleep in the dark.

I remembered being so glad you'd let me in, to talk with me honestly, and I think I fell asleep with my hand in your hair.

Scene two, even more forward still; after nearly a week spent together it had been overwhelming and still not nearly enough.  I'd watched you wade in the ocean, shrieking with the cold, and as we posed for the last photo before sending you home I thought, maybe if I hold you here and take one more photo, this won't end.  Not yet. 

Just another five minutes, but not yet.

You carry a piece of me with you every day, and if it means as much to you as it does to me, it is very treasured indeed.

(I'm still hoping I'll see you in the skirt someday.  Yes, that skirt.  THAT skirt.  No chance in hell?  Well, a girl can wish.)

For that, and many other reasons, I love you.

(The first part of a little writing project.  Details tomorrow.)