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Valentine's Day 1926, exactly one hundred years ago. We went to the theater together.
I don't remember what the show was about, but I remember him. I remember how he laughed, how he got scared when one of the actors suddenly shouted. I remember how he took my hand. I blushed, but you couldn't see it in the dark.
“That show was amazing!” he said. “We have to go to the theater more often.”
Then we went to a restaurant.
I spilled wine on my shirt. The one time I wore a white shirt, I spilled red drink on it. He laughed and then tried to wipe the stain with a tissue.
“Oh, you're so clumsy!” he laughed.
After dinner, we went for a walk. It was snowing, cold, and dark. I dreamed of us holding hands, but we were just friends. I walked him to his bookshop. We talked outside for a while. He didn't invite me in. That's okay. I was just happy to spend time with him.
“Thank you for this evening, Crowley.”
A hundred years have passed. Now I am alone. How much I would give to repeat such an evening again.
I miss you, Aziraphale.