One Sunday evening in the bowels of winter, we visited some Indian restaurant next to the doctor’s surgery where I once collected my happy pills. It’s not there anymore. The doctor’s surgery, that is. The restaurant is. I can’t remember the name of it, though. Neither can I remember what you were wearing. This, I know, will upset you because you made such an effort, and you always did hate it when I wasn’t observant enough. It’s strange, isn’t it? How I can recall the most obscure of details while forgetting those I should keep close? I don’t know why this is. Alcohol abuse? Bad genetics? When we were eating our starters, a blob of sauce splashed your chin. Leaning over the table, I scooped it off with my finger and was about to place it on my tongue when you stuck out your head like a snapping turtle and swiped it in the blink of an eye. You almost took my finger off. Those at the other tables were appalled. Not me, though. I loved you all the more for it. Wouldn’t it be a shame if I remembered this, and you didn’t? That in some quirky twist of fate, I remembered something beautiful, and it had slipped your mind completely? I guess one day, it’ll be forgotten along with everything else. There’s just no helping it. In some distant state, everything we have ever loved will have washed away down the cosmic plughole, and all that will remain will be our silhouettes, holding each other on the night of our first date.