He pointed out the empire state building as we waited for a cab. He wanted to make sure I got home safely. I love that. He pointed up, and I swooned just a little, pretending it was the heels. Heels are a wonderful excuse. Immediately I thought An Affair to Remember and conjured up Cary Grant, right there beside me, as we hailed our cab north. Yes north.

It’s Wednesday night, but I’m too giddy for that. See, usually I’m feeling this way on a Thursday, and man, I’m already thinking Saturday… when I see him again. And as always, our time will be too short and too public. But that’s what comes of dating with napkins and handiwipes. We’re not exactly building walls. I mean, neither of us is laying brick, but we’re cautious, as adult wounded lovers tend to be… like people who have done the burned out on an idea or a hope thing. People who’ve retired the habits of you’re persistent and cute and happen to really like me types. Now, we’re looking back. Is this a fit? Truth? It’s too damn early. So, we’re dating on Wednesdays and tolerating good night kissing in front of doormen. It’s a revolving door, and if they touch you for only a moment, you’re all lucky. But amazingly, this realistic is completely adorable, fcukable, and someone you’ve got your fingers crossed about. He’s good people… or at least you hope so. You hope he doesn’t let you down, instead of expecting that he will. You’ve got hope again, and that’s wonderful. Better, even, than Cary Grant.

Posting past memories is confusing and dangerous. Everyone calls… who is this guy? But this guy is gone. But the hope for finding the feelings again will always be with me… I can’t let go of hope… it’s like the last 5 pounds. It’s not worth it.