It's amazing, how easily we pick up where we left off.
I spend the entire weekend with Elizabeth, at her place. She drives me to a small ski town a couple of hours away from Montreal, just for the day; it's empty and desolate-looking, with the last of the leaves gone and no snow to cover the depressing brown-grey slopes and trees. We spend the afternoon in an outdoor spa before heading off to dinner at a cozy French restaurant.
But mostly we just stay in bed.
"So, you know my story now," she says, pulling me close to her. "Your turn?"
I playfully punch her arm. "You wish."
She's supposed to drive me home Sunday night, but we're both too comfortable to get up—and neither of us says it, but we still haven't gotten enough of each other. I suspect it might take a while.
