I caught myself thinking of you. It’s almost been a week since we spent the evening together. The dinner at the café was wonderful. Yet you made it unforgettable. Even with so many diverse, competing flavors, your style made each dish taste as if it was prepared just for you. Shrimp, béchamel, fig sauce, sardines and beef tenderloin all basked in your glow around the table. I wanted you. I wanted to take all of you right then and there. But then, part of me wanted to savor the experience until the wee hours of the morning. I had no pen, with which to sketch your scent; no paper to capture your taste. Thus I had to spare part of you for later. When the time came for our dinner to end, I took you tenderly in my hands, wrapped you snug to ward off the driving snow, clutched you to my breast and returned home. Yet we didn’t dance again that night. No. I wanted to see if the magic could endure a day’s worth of waiting; a day’s worth of wondering. The following evening I reserved a small table for two. I drew you close, jostled you gently and breathed deeply: Earth, wood, eucalyptus, dried red cherries. Then the sip: rich flavor, lovely depth, slightly dusty tannins and a lasting finish. Alas, with that, you were gone. Perhaps we’ll meet again in Barcelona or Madrid. Or maybe, someday I’ll travel to your home in San Vicente, Rioja. In any event, I’ll always treasure the memory of that cold Saturday night. Adieu.