They were reunited for the first time in months in that kitchen. Their eyes cut by the sharp edges of the eyebrows and lips and cheekbones of other guests at the party, they shared their departure. The night taxi was manned by midnight itself, taking crazy turns with the lights off.

During the ride they attacked the old days with knives and forks, feasting upon memories. She had always been the one bottle of wine too many on any evening, and this night was no different. They started again from the beginning of their story, singing softly of chagrin, and as they went towards the concluding word he wanted only to return to the first.

Intimate feelings which they had set aside listened to the deeper rumours echoing in their conversation. Her heart, maddened by yesterdays, hit his like a piping hot thunderbolt, and – inch by inch – they burrowed into one another’s undeniable physical charms.

When morning came they accepted under protest the light that fell upon their dewy dreaming faces, collected their clothes, and went their separate ways.

This entry is part of my journal, published January 10, 2013, in San Francisco.