I went to Edinburgh for the weekend, to see Mr D.

It started with a hiccup: a used condom wrapper on his headboard that was not from me, a hostel reservation, deposit paid: place to go, seven cigarettes smoked rapidly on a street-corner, a conversation more silence than words, numbness, but also an understanding. We watched a movie, and he spent all two hours stroking my hair, scratching my back, lacing his fingers through mine. Apology both physical and verbal. The image of another girl in his bed touched away.

Friday night, there were drinks with his friends at the Jekyll and Hyde, where the bartender greeted me with, "Double Jack and Coke and a shot of tequila?" So much laughter, so much joy. Everything fit together; everything went right. He, unlike any other guy I've been with, makes me feel like I'm the only girl in the universe, like he's the lucky one.

Saturday morning: you know those scenes in romantic movies were the couple is in bed the morning after, and they're kissing, both under the sheet, and the sunlight makes their faces glow? All day Saturday was like that. He read to me from his favorite book, my head on his chest, feeling the way his voice growls.

He cooked dinner Saturday night for me and a few of his friends. There was wine and conversation. I've changed--a few months ago, I would never have suggested the dinner party for my last night, but now, it's more about having a good time, rather than having the right time, if that makes any sense.

He walked me to the bus stop (this is a pattern, isn't it? Since when was I the one that leaves?), stayed in line with me until I actually stepped on the bus. I don't even know where to begin thinking about how I feel. This was the goodbye weekend, even if he didn't know it. I'll probably see him again (he wants to come visit; I'm going back to see folks at St Andrews), but this is the weekend I want to remember.