Two years ago, I had dinner with a mystery woman. A redhead with the spirit to match. Petite but self-confident, comfortable with who she is.
I had known an earlier version of this woman, a quarter-century before. The hair was different, the personality more young career girl going places.
And she did, professionally and physically. When she moved to Europe, I lost touch with her until I learned she was in Geneva, at least some of the time. Fortunately, when I sent her a message that I was in the city, briefly, she was there and not at her other home several hours away in the south of France, or perhaps traveling somewhere for business or mystery novel research ... or, or, or ...
I invited her for coffee. When we met, she changed it to dinner at one of her favorite restaurants. She does that sort of thing - makes plans without asking - and she knows I'll like the new plan as well or better than the original because I trust her implicitly.
At dinner, we did our best to catch up on 50 years of life, her 25 and my 25 since we'd last talked. But there was a lot left unsaid, feelings unexpressed. She had to catch a bus; I had to pack to catch a plane.
So we of the generation which is supposed to be intimidated by all new things electronic resumed our relationship via email and Skype.
We caught up with more of each other's lives. Established a ground rule of complete openness. Expressed long-suppressed emotions.
It was never a mystery to her that I was in love with her. The heart feels these things without the words ever slipping past the lips.