My memory of that time is somewhat hazy. Like everything else, it’s faded with the passing of the intervening years, and yet if I close my eyes and focus, I can vividly see her sat across the table from me with such a look of mischief about her. As soon as she’d finished that plate of pancakes, she’d clutched her belly complaining how she felt so poorly. She was quite adamant it had nothing to do with the pancakes though. Must be my time, she said, or a heart attack. I told her I was pretty sure you didn’t get heart attacks in your belly, but she was in too much agony to take any notice. Moving awkwardly in her chair, she lifted her feet off the floor and curled herself into a ball. Looking around, I could see people at the other tables giving her an assortment of peculiar looks, and yet, strangely enough, I found myself chuffed to be in the presence of one so decidedly odd. With her eyes pinched shut, she opened them a slither to check on me, and upon seeing me sat drinking my tea, groaned while shaking her head from side to side as if on the verge of death. Knowing the game she was playing and wishing very much to play it, I got up from my seat and moved over to her. Kneeling by her side, I raised my right hand and rubbed my thumb back and forth over her cheek. Trying hard not to smile, she didn’t succeed, and as those dimples of hers came into bloom, I couldn’t help but be drawn in by her antics. Again, what struck me was our level of intimacy even though we still barely knew each other, and yet there I was, caressing her so tenderly as she opened both eyes with her chin resting on knees that were tucked in as tight as she could possibly bring them. With those eyes of hers on mine, she snuggled her face against my hand as it were a pillow, just as she would for the next four years we called ourselves lovers.