I slipped your driving license out and studied your photo for a long time. Like most people’s, your expression was serious and unsmiling, like you feared they wouldn’t let you drive otherwise. I took a picture of the photo with my phone; back then, I didn’t have many pictures of you and I thought it would help to look at it when I craved your closeness between sessions. It did, for a while, but I assume you are familiar with the law of diminishing returns and how, once you get what you want, you always want more? I wanted more.

The bottom of the bag was surprisingly messy – I didn’t have you down as a messy lady and I felt a stab of annoyance at this discovery. I had to scramble around amid old receipts, loose change, parking slips and empty chewing gum wrappers to reach the last few objects underneath. But, oh boy, it was worth it. There was a small, burnished-orange leather-bound journal. I opened it, assuming it was a calendar, so imagine my delight when I realized it was much more personal than that. It was almost full – page after page of your innermost thoughts and musings. I swear, my heart somersaulted. I put it aside, knowing I’d spend my evening drinking in your words, and that I’d cherish the little book forever. I was right about that.

I also found a Dior lip gloss, which I instantly applied to my own lips, and this, too, was an intensely satisfying moment. Several times, I ran the little wand up and down the length of my lips, thinking about how it had also touched yours. I closed my eyes and allowed myself an imagined scene in which you kissed me passionately, your lips slick with that same gloss, passing it from your lips to mine. You’d slip your tongue into my mouth and hold me close, so close I could feel the beat of your heart and the soft contour of your breasts. Back then, I often had fantasies like that, when the only language I had to describe feeling that close to someone was sexual or romantic.