There was this last night in Brussels when everybody had left. It was just some hours away from meeting Mike in A'dam (after two weeks of not having his laugh, his lips, his tenderness, the whole dream), and I had the head in the clouds while browsing through the places I wanted to visit that would for sure make him smile.
Maybe if I had known that the next night I was gonna say goodbye without looking back, I wouldn't have strolled around Ixchelles, maybe I wouldn't have looked like the sun and the stars together, maybe I would have just gone back home (the one across the Atlantic) that very night.
But there I was, in Ecco, eating fettuccine and thinking life was right like in the movies. The Italian waiter told me that it was a pity I was not having dessert, because the dessert chef wanted to do something special. Then there was Aimé, right out from the kitchen, there was me smiling, there was a broken French with Italian and English together, there was the manager asking if he was bothering me (non, c'est normal, merci), there was somebody who dared to do what I never do.
So I got an e-mail from him, and two days ago another one. I am not sure why I never wrote back. Aimé, please excuse my French, it is not enough to build the dream you think I am.
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