A date with my girl.

There are only a handful of people in this world I could spill my guts on to without apprehensions. I would tell them animatedly the nasty details of my sordid story, not skipping a beat. I trust them with every blackmail material anyone could ever hold against me because they are tried and tested secret keepers. But most importantly, I would hold nothing back because I know they would always be there to listen, without reservations, more so without an ounce of judgment.

And it was like that last night. It was with one of my favorite persons that I rehashed an old tale we've gone over a million times before --- over ym, over the phone, over miles of ocean and land apart --- but this time, we did it over pizza, cannelloni and roast chicken. I couldn't care less for the ones in the tables next to ours, who probably overheard the dirty particulars of my stale story. Amici was overflowing with families and friends, conversing over familiar italian food, but for me, last night, it was just her and me.

We walked the length of the road to reach the cake place she wanted to revisit. We could have flagged down a cab --- it was a busy major thoroughfare and I am not known for the crossing-the-street skills --- but we were 2 small girls who might have eaten for a family of five. A short 10 minutes after and we reached Fleur de Lys. The walking made enough room for tea, chiffon cake and apple pie.

I probably did all the talking last night. I had questions, of course, but I guess there's time for that. I, also, am not known to ask. If they need me to know, they'd tell. And, as always, I would be there to listen, and like an unspoken oath between cherished old friends, it would be without reservations, without judgment.

I am just glad she's here.