Dear _____,

I’m sorry. For so many things really. For finishing that final glass of Johnnie before returning to your apartment for a shared bottle of Big Foot and a viewing of Knocked Up.  For believing that when we slept in the same bed that February night that nothing would happen between us other than laughter and late-night cuddling. For promising to tell no one about that night but subsequently telling just about everyone I know (and now writing about it). For telling you I love you “just as a friend” when really I meant and still mean I love you, and, perhaps most importantly, for making the mistake of clearing up the last folly. Things were less complicated when you thought it was just sex and India Pale Ale.

Thank you, though, for everything. For making me feel beautiful and desirable after my breakup with the law student. For teaching me that sex can, in fact, be fun.  For listening to the rain with me until sunrise and telling me that it sounded just like the jungle outside your downtown apartment as the raindrops pelted the June leaves and the morning birds sang. For sitting on your porch with me from fireflies to sunrise with that bottle of Israeli wine back in 2007. For knowing me well enough to get the Templeton Rye for my 25th birthday and for telling me stories of the mobsters who drank it. And thank you, especially, for that breakfast last August when you toasted the pumpernickel rye and drank a second glass of whole milk.

Yours always (despite how I try)