Weeks of phone calls, emails culminating in beautiful, magical weekend.
Hotel-- art deco, beautifully restored, swank. Room-- mid-century modern, fireplace, corner view, Egyptian cotton sheets. Accoutrements-- French champagne, bouquets of flowers. Food-- room service, fabulous Italian restaurant.
Man-- successful, warm, sexy, funny, intelligent. Me-- happy I've met him and I'm there with him.
Thirty-six hours of bliss, together.
Home. Me-- a week of pre-occupation. Him-- a week of travel, business.
Emails-- his-- two, one asking "How are you?" and "Everything's good" after his arrival in a particularly dangerous Central American country.
Phone calls-- his-- two, one after his plane landed in Atlanta after our weekend, the other the night before he left for Central America. "I've been thinking of you," I admitted to him. "I've been thinking of you too," he answered.
All's I can think is, and hopefully I might add, he continues to do so.
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