I met her with mutual friends one night in London last week. For the longest heartbeat I nearly flipped out. Call it a reaction delayed by a year, call it an emotional dam bursting, call it slightly drunken madness, the momentary release of pouring my drink over her head and calling her a duplicitous whore in front of her friends looked like it might outweigh social constraints.

The desire passed without incident.

Fifteen minutes later I imagined holding her smooth and oh too close face in my hands and kissing, kissing, kissing for the rest of time.

Suggestions of closure are considered slightly premature.