You loved this restaurant simply for the memories it held for you.   You loved the owner and his burly wife and the warm glow that often permeated from them as they greeted the regulars. I believe you simply loved their story because of their tumultuous beginning, much like our own, but either way; we were here again, two years after we met journeying back to our apartment from your parents, where we celebrated an early Christmas. You stood up to use the restroom, and my gaze had fallen upon an image of Walt Disney, which hung awkwardly on the wall opposite of our booth, the progenitor of my childhood dreams and fantasies. Now there was a genious, pure, and simple. Anyone who could inspire dreams into those who had their dreams stripped from them at an early age was to me, a man among men. You returned to the table, the wisp of a smile played across your lips, the rosy color of your cheeks freshened under the care of delicate fingers. Returning my gaze to the picture, I reflected on my youth and how I had imagined him to be a child, much like myself now, masquerading as an adult. I imagined his life, akin to my own, troubled and searching for a way to escape the everyday horrors that were pressed upon us as children from the adult world. Even though I knew the charade in my mind not to be true, I hoped that one day it would be possible to live my dreams as he did in his latter years.   It was not until years later when the park became commercialized and over inflated by egos and the pursuit of furthering financial gains did I realize he was always just a man.   I still like to imagine from time to time that he was, under the façade, a cartoon and not a man and certainly not a businessman.  

           It was a number of years after I stopped dreaming, and under my own chains that I abandoned my dreams to pursue my own career. And it was not until I met you that I even remembered them. You my dear had found a way to instill those dreams back into my life, for that I owe you everything.   The ambiance of the restaurant had allowed me to grow lethargic, drifting off into my memories letting the moment carry my thoughts to you. This euphoric feeling was jolted as our waitress slinked to our sides with chewing gum snapping and popping noisily in her jowls. You smiled coyly at my discomfort.

            We sipped our wine simultaneously, your green eyes sparkling with a festive glow, peering over the rim of your glass, gazing into my eyes, and seeing my soul laid bare. The green of your eyes, the red of the wine meeting your lips emphasized the season. I reached to my pocket, felt concealed there, the symbol of my desires, carefully enclosed within a velvet box. My reverie was interrupted by our waitress who brought forth our meal.   For you, a rectangular plate adorned with four deep green asparagus spears with a pat of butter melting and slowly making its decent to the plate, but was held up by the fresh peppercorns that were liberally crushed and splayed across their length.   These coupled with a seared mahi-mahi with a white wine and garlic sauce that steamed and wrapped its aromas gently around your face as you leaned in, inhaling deeply, molding your olfactory senses with the plate creating the perfect image of culinary unison.   Placed before me, on a large circular plate that in many places would have served as a large bowl, a pair of lamb shanks with a sprigs of rosemary laid abreast them served with steamed root vegetables all of which swam in a robust cabernet sauce. The lamb yielded without protest to my fork as we ate slowly, savoring every morsel, and performed the lazy back and forth conversation that can only be achieved when two souls are locked in simple yet immensely intimate dualities.   

            Our plates were cleared by the busboy who simply asked in typical busboy fashion if we would permit him to clear table, but only if, of course, we were finished.   His thick Mexican accent marked him as a young man who had more than likely recently arrived to the country in hopes of setting sail on his own course of dreams.   I shuddered to think what he thought of the winters in New York, and if it suited him, or was he having doubts concerning his decision to leave his warm home behind for fortune and possibly fame? We ordered espressos and as I lit a cigarette for you.   You inhaled deeply and lovingly, a habit I had for the better part of the year had tried to get you to quit, and not without some small measure of success, but after dinner smoking was something you refused to arrest so I never pressed you.   You began telling me of the small brown mouse that lived in the upper recesses of our kitchen, the one that initially began sneaking out at night to rescue the tiny bits of crumbs from the sterility of the sponge that would make its way to the counter soon after the sun began to rise.   You were telling me of a conversation you swore to having with it just the other morning and how you were amazed that you once feared such a gentle and intelligent creature.   

           It was then that I really began to understand who you were.   Even though I had long since fallen in love with you, I never understood you until that moment, your kindness knowing no bounds, and even superceding your most inner fears of mice running underfoot while you stood on a chair shrieking as I chased the vermin around the room with a broom.   However, once you saw it for what it was, and I think more that there was only one, you became less afraid, I believe because you found it cute or adorable even, and began to encourage it, coaxing it out of hiding with tiny bits of food while affectionately bestowing upon its personage the name Reginald. I remember the first day that it mistook me for you and squeaked a good morning as I sipped my coffee and munched a slice of toast.   I recall thinking how brazen it had become and as I rose to end its existence you entered the room, gleefully said good morning (to Reginald) and broke off a corner of my toast and proceeded to feed the beast, who was more than happy to take from your slender fingers the proffered meal.   It amazed me that instead of scurrying back to its hideaway, it sat down and began to munch the toast quite calmly.  

           As you spoke, with my attention drifting on the sea of your words, you tilted your head towards the table slightly, and I watched as a lock of your dark hair cascaded from behind your ear to rest upon and gently caress your cheek.   The hour of my intent had yet to arrive when I desired to reveal my innermost desires to you, so I imply sat and listened as my nerves carved out a canyon through my insides.   How I maintained composure I will never know. The waitress – still respecting our unspoken desire for solitude – smiled, placed the check on the table, and disappeared from our lives forever. You smiled gently as I watched the silvery blue smoke swirl around your fingers and passed your left cheek and disappeared into the dark reaches of the restaurant.   We finished our coffee, you tamped out the remainder of smoke and we stood to leave. You wrapped your scarf around your neck as I lifted your coat, and as you slid inside with a smile cast in my direction I gently squeezed your shoulder. With a flourish of my own scarf over my shoulder and the donning of my fedora we plunged outside into the cold, the wind, and the rest of our lives together.

           We walked arm and arm down the street towards the park, I pulled away from you, watching the snow fall lazily on your hair, and experienced at that moment, an extraordinary event, the sort that occurs rather infrequently in life: unless one pays close attention.   I experienced a vision of the time we first met back when you were still a carefree undergrad, and I was in the final year of my doctorate. You, with your playful demeanor, had thrown a snowball, striking me at the nape of my neck, an accident you claimed, you could not hit the side of a house if you tried, or so you pleaded, but I would like to believe otherwise. You rushed forward as I slipped on a sheet of ice, losing my grasp on my thesis, which fell into a half frozen puddle while I watched in horror as the ink bled into itself, erasing much of my hard work. Red with anger, I lunged salvaging what I could, but the damage had been done. I remember you tried to help pick up the mess, to replace what your mirth had ruined, and my reaction was not kind as I screamed for you to get away and proceeded to violently shove you into a nearby snow bank, hoping that it would swallow you whole, and leave me in peaceful satisfaction that at least you were ruined as well.

           I gathered what I was able of my life’s work, or so it seemed at the time, as it was due in five minutes on my advisor’s desk, but now it was gone. You appeared at my side, looking slightly afraid, your hair covered with snow, as it is now, and you said you would help plead my case before my advisor. I remember my rage and seeing the look upon your face that suggested you might actually be of use to me, stared at you with steam pouring from my forehead, muttered a stern `no thanks’ which was mired in acid and walked away. What a fool I was, but still you helped, you claimed you understood my plight, and could be of assistance.   Little did I know what you meant then, but I do now.

            It was not until the spring when I again I saw you and I blushed with embarrassment.   I looked away not wanting our gaze to lock in recognition, though how I expected you to not recognize me to this day remains a mystery.   I was, at the time, waiting the arrival of my fiancé and nursing a martini when you slunk into the stool beside me and ordered one of your own.

           “Hi.” Your voice was light and friendly, as you spoke to the bartender, “I’ll have what he’s having.”   You gave me a start, and I know my face reddened, as you looked at me a smiled warmly, perhaps a bit smugly.   The situation had after all, worked itself out without a hitch.

           “Hey,” I returned sheepishly, looking at you for the first time, your bold eyes and soft face staring back at me with such gaiety and vigor, the sort of unselfish look I remember seeing on the face of my dear old Walt, way back when… We spoke for the better part of an hour buying drinks for each other, and I found myself smiling and wondering how light and free I felt in your presence. You told me I was not the guy you once thought I was, and asked me if I was single, and before I could give a response, a voice cackled from just over my right shoulder.

           “What the hell do you think you are doing?”   I froze as the voice of my finance shattered the moment dragging me back to tormented reality.   “Who the hell is this woman you are talking to?” the voice rasped again. My eyes closed, reopened apologetically to you, and I turned to look my then future bride in the eye and was just about to tell her you were a classmate at one time and that we were just catching up on times when you interrupted. I then supposed that you felt poorly for having unwittingly placed me in that position I was in. Yet another jam you felt you could fix. You declared you were someone you were not, and someone whom she knew you not to be either – my sister.   My fiancée turned angry, flushing her face and eyes and turning she left the bar and stormed outside.   I quickly rose, gathered my belongings, and placed a bill on the bar for my tab.   Exasperated, I sighed – so long – and you looked at me pleadingly.   That was the second time I failed to understand you.   I felt the fool as I left under what was less than auspicious circumstances resembling a boy trailing his mother through a department store at the end of summer vacation in search of back to school bargains.

           I reached my fiancé, grabbing her by the shoulder to turn her to me so I could explain to her that you were just someone I bumped into last winter, the girl who almost ruined my thesis, when she sent a vicious closed fist in the direction of my nose, causing it to bleed profusely.   Screaming more than one obscenity she tore the ring from her finger, threw it into my face and as I sat there on the ground cupping my hand beneath my nose as I bled, I listened to unveiled threats concerning my wellbeing and future, something about settling a score.   I began to laugh and how absurd I must have looked and rising, said I did nto give a damn what she thought, that I never really loved her anyway, and turned to leave.   I listened to her screaming at me as I walked back into the bar saw you sitting there with what became a horrified and deeply concerned look upon your face, and I smiled the first genuine smile of my life in over six years.

           That was how we met. Almost two years ago from this day. You asked what had happened, and I told you.

            That seems so long ago doesn’t it? Hard to believe I say in a whisper as I cradle your body close to mine. I brush the hair from your face and kiss your pale cold cheek.

           “You are getting cold my love, we should get going.” I say, but you offer no response as I reach into my pocket and feeling there the box softly contained within. “You’re so cold…” A hand grasps my shoulder, and I turn to stare in the eyes of a man with a saddened look upon his face.

           “Come on fella...” he says, “…lets get you home.” I look around for the first time realize the multitudes of people standing nearby. There are lights flashing and men and women running here and there in a mad fury, some writing, and some fetching objects out of vehicles. Flash bulbs erupt impeding my attempt to focus. Things begin to move slowly without a sense of rhythm. I look around at the trees and the sudden activity trying to attain a grasp on what has occurred, and how we failed to see it as we sat finishing our wine. I look to you for some semblance of understanding and see blood spilling onto the snow.