My Dearest Dea,
It seems so long ago that we took a trip to New York City with our mission group of college. I was excited, I had never been to NYC before that trip. We had met before, at editing meetings for the school paper where you kept asking me to turn in articles I was a week l
ate in delivering. But we hadn’t really met.
I forget where, but I think the day that I took notice we were in one of our city mission tours and a gentleman who had been a veteran of WW2 tried speaking a little Croatian to you. I remember because when the group prodded you as to what you two had said, you blushed red. Not from being embarrassed about your culture, but because you suddenly stood out. And I wanted to pay attention to every word you said, whether I could understand them or not.
Perhaps there was a hint of excitement about meeting someone exotic, but hearing you speak in a language I’d never heard before made me realize there was a person I didn’t know underneath your white wool hat and marshmallow shaped white coat.
Shortly after that, the poking started. Isn’t it funny how our fingers did most of the flirting? Trying to see who could get the other to laugh the loudest at the worst possible moment. In cathedrals, on the van rides between sites, and it caused others to see what was happening before we even noticed.
You often ask me if I remember our new york trip and to be honest, I really don’t. I didn’t even notice it, but a few days in, I was just infatuated with taking in as much information, spending as much time with you as possible.
My one regret: not kissing you during that night walk on the Brooklyn Bridge.