Good for the Economy - Warning: love letter following, may cause a toothache

            There is our restaurant, that breakfast place we went the next morning after that first time. You raved about the waffles and fed me bits of caramel banana flavored sweetness. We over-ordered because we wanted to try everything and we wanted to indulge. After that first breakfast I took off my sandals and we walked around the block so I could have a cigarette. We held hands and beamed our delight at each other. We might as well have been walking on air. We keep returning to that restaurant, despite the sometimes indifferent service, fouled orders and cold food. We went there after our first fight when we didn't speak for a week. We went there after our second fight when we didn't speak for a month. We always over-order. We always order the waffles. We want to try everything.

        There is sushi. We love it and we love that the other loves it. There is that tempura that you like and you order a big bowl of the dipping sauce so that everything can be flavored with it. We order way more than we can eat because we are indulgent people who love to feed our senses. We had sushi on our first official date. My friend interrupted us with a crisis and I invited her to come and join us. While waiting for her to arrive I apologized to you and you held my hand and said that what was important to me was important to you too. You meant it.

        Now we go to Cupcake off of University and indulge in the best croissant the Twin Cities has to offer. It's our place. During the month of silence, after our second fight, neither of us would go there. It wasn't the same without the other. Now we order three croissants because they are so good that we can't just have one. You always save that certain part of the flakey pastry for me, because you know I love it. We order coffee and chai and bottled water and Izzes – our favorite soda. We over-order because we love to indulge our senses.

        Eight years ago I entered The Loring Cafe, underage, sporting a fake ID, and ordered a vodka cranberry. You were my server. You still remember that drink. Seven years ago, you would come into Borders where I was working and buy books so that you could talk to me. You remember me in my stocking feet and white sweater, ringing purchases for the holiday customer. You would come into the deli where I also worked and buy mixed green salads and we would talk and chat and I would ask you to remind me of your name again. Now, seven years later, you cause me to breathlessly whisper that name over and over, barely aware of what I am saying.

        One day, seven years ago I was sitting on a bus bench outside of the uptown Planned Parenthood waiting for my test results, writing in my journal and hating my then boyfriend. I was planning a big move. You were walking by and joined me on the bench. You told me that you were going to Germany to perform. You were the showpiece, live art, a multi-media physical theatre dance installation. It sounded like a mouth full and I was suitably impressed. I wrote about you in my journal that day, a fleeting meeting. I didn't see you again until seven years later though we both lived in New York and both returned to Minnesota. That day, seven years ago, I gave you a business card and seven years later you still had it even though I had long quit the job and long forgotten that I ever owned a business card. I insisted that you must have been remembering someone else. You had to prove it to me.

        Seven years later I was at the Kitty Kat club and had to go to the bathroom. I passed by your table. When I exited the stall you were there. Now, my trip to the toilet is indelibly etched in our memory. As I washed my hands you re-introduced yourself. You didn't quite remember my name and I didn't quite remember yours but we listed instances where we had met. Oh right, didn't you have a show in Germany? Yes. You were moving to New York, right? Yes. Do you want to go have dinner sometime? Yes. We can catch up. Yes. That would be great. Yes. It was great running into you again. Yes. You knew what that symbol on my necklace meant. You complimented me on it. Long ago you had it tattooed on your palm and I had it tattooed on my neck, just recently.

        Seven years later you came into the restaurant where I was working. I had invited you. We didn't know it for sure then but we were soon to be inseparable. Maybe it was something as cheesy as fate. Maybe you were meant to come into my restaurant and order the seafood linguine. Maybe I was meant to sneak you a free glass of the Viognier. You gave me a pendant that you had purchased for me that day, a week after the Kitty Kat. When I exclaimed at the gift you said to me the line that has resonated in my head and heart ever since. I just want to be so nice to you. As long as you will let me, as long as you are here, I am going to be so nice to you. You have whispered variations of that line to me - my head resting on your shoulder, my lips on your neck -  many times after that night and I always believe you.

        I came to meet you that night, seven years later. Before our official date. I met you at the Kitty Kat. You had spent the time, waiting for me to get off of work, writing a five page letter of poem, prose, memory and free association. You wrote of your amazement of seeing me again. You wrote of your excitement, your passion, your hope. It was beautiful and I want you to know that I read it over and over, humbled that I would evoke such feeling in you. I want you to know that I was in a state of wonder and awe at the answering feelings in me. That night we closed down the bar, even though we had only one drink each. We were talking, talking, sharing and talking. We didn't kiss that night, that night before our official date, but we shared an embrace that lasted for five minutes and felt like forever.

        We buy gifts because we want the other to know that we are thinking about them when they are not there. We buy books and pajamas and T-shirts with significant meaning silk-screened on the front. We are good for the economy. We buy charcoals to burn our favorite resin incense that transforms your room into an opium den of exotic smoke. We buy tea and gourmet cheese, wine and truffles. You buy fake meat and bake the best Frito pie this world has ever seen. You use that salsa we found in Santa Fe, the one that's so good we had to buy three jars. I bought you a jar during that time, that time we weren't speaking, and didn't know if I would ever give it to you. I did. We listen to Indian music and dream about traveling to India together. Yes, our love is good for the economy. We over-order. We tip well. We are extravagant because we are indulgent people and we love to feed our senses with the world and with each other.

I missed you.