Dear Francis,

I thought about visiting you today, but I didn't. I sat in my chair and read and ignored the urge and stayed away exactly like you had told me to. It's funny, isn't it, that I'm actually listening to you. I never did before. Neither of us should really count on it lasting…I know I'll give in sooner or later and-

Well, fuck it.

I've decided I'll come tomorrow afternoon. Prepare yourself, frog.

Sincerely,

Arthur

At promptly 3 pm the next day, I'm sitting in front of you on a patch of grass outside. I almost wish you would look at me, but I know full well you won't. I sigh and take a drink from my travel mug full of tea and stare at you, smiling sadly in the silence. For a little while, I can't think of anything to say. So I start off with a simple greeting, hoping to keep it less than awkward for the both of us.

"Hey, Francis," I start, but- of course- you don't respond. I shake my head and look away, still smiling. I know it's a good idea to visit you, even though you might disagree. This makes me feel better, being in your company, even when you're cold and indifferent.

"It's…it's been a while," I continue, choking up a bit, but- of course- you don't make a sound. I sigh and look back at you, my eyes tearing up a little. I take another sip of the tea and compose myself before continuing on. You never liked it when I stuttered and paused; why would you put up with it now?

"I should hope you've been well."

But- of course- you remain silent.

"Do…do you remember how we met, Francis?" I asked suddenly and quietly, wanting you to look in my green eyes with your blue ones and tell me that yes, you do remember. But- of course- you don't. And then I think for a moment. Your eyes aren't just blue…no, they're far more than that. They're the color of the sky on a rare, sunny day in London. They're the color of the ocean when we tried to go swimming that one summer, so long ago. You had to force me into the water because I was scared, God dammit, and I screamed at you to put me the fuck down. But- of course- you didn't; you held onto me tightly and didn't let me go.

"I guess I'll just remind you, then," I mutter, shaking my head. "Damned fool, you can't even remember, I bet…"

And then I launch into the tale.

You were a culinary major and I was an English major; two different ends of the spectrum if you ask me. I ran into you on campus at the college we were both attending in England on the rainiest day of the semester. I yelled at you for knocking my books out of my hand and onto the wet ground, even gave you a sharp punch in the jaw. You just laughed, picked up my books, and offered to take me out to dinner to make up for it. I agreed like the bloody idiot I was and…well, it went from there. We never did get to go to dinner. I kept trying to tell you no, it wasn't okay to be doing what we were so soon after we met, but my body had a different response to your sweet- and sometimes rough- touches. Clearly, you had listened more to my body's answer than my mind's…I'm glad about that, you know. We spent the night together and, even though I yelled at you the next morning, I really didn't regret anything. It took me a week to face you again after that.

"There, do you remember now?" I ask, staring at where your eyes would be if you were looking at me. But- of course- you don't so much as nod, and so I start picking at the grass near my feet and sigh in frustration, letting out a small string of curses. "Do you at least remember our first real date?"

Again, I burst out into the story, remembering every little detail.

That's the thing about us writers…we forget important things like dentist appointments and when to take food out of the oven (which you always yelled at me for when I cooked for you), but we remember the little details that no one else would. For example, I remember everything you wore, what you smelled like, the exact time you picked me up, how you acted, where we went, what we ordered and in what order, even the bloody color of the candle on our table, everything.

You asked me out on a Sunday, of all days, saying you had reservations at a French restaurant for that Wednesday (the only night neither of us had classes). I slapped you for assuming that I would automatically join you, but- of course- I agreed to go anyways. After all, you still owed me dinner for knocking my books to the ground over a week and a half beforehand.

Anyways, you picked me up at exactly 7:18, 18 minutes late. I scolded you for that, crossing my arms and pouting angrily. You only laughed, making me more annoyed, but- of course- I didn't hit you…couldn't hit you…not when you looked like you did. You were dressed up and looking so damn attractive that I almost called off the date then and there. You had your too long, blond locks tied back in a ponytail of sorts, but your bangs were too short to stay back, so they framed your face. Your pale skin was hidden by a white dress shirt, black vest, and black pants. A black fedora rested atop your head, which I thought looked absolutely ridiculous, so I made you remove it before I would step foot outside my dorm room.

It had taken you a half an hour to get me dressed to your liking and another half an hour to stop assaulting my lips. We arrived at the restaurant a little late for our reservation, but that was okay. If you remember correctly, you had reserved a limo, too, so we spent the ride cuddled up in the back seat. I could smell that you had used a perfume instead of cologne, but I liked it; the scent fit you. It smelled a bit like roses with a hint of something I couldn't quite put my finger on, so I just named the scent after you in my mind. You smelled the same way every time I saw you after that, if I'm not mistaken (which, of course, I'm not).

We sat at a table in the far left corner of the restaurant with a lit, white candle standing in the middle of our table. You had made dirty jokes about it and I reprimanded you, even when I had, indeed, cracked a smile at some of them. You ordered wine for us, Port I believe. It was red and sweet; my new favorite after that night. Being the charming man you were, the waitress asked for your order first. You had Foie Gras, which I later told you looked like a piece of shit sitting on top of more shit. And, like I expected, you corrected me, going into all the ingredients and how they were prepared. I listened politely, enjoying the way you sounded so passionate and serious while you talked about the food. I had ordered Cassoulet, thinking it was the only thing that looked edible on the menu which was in all French. My choice in food was subjected to your criticism when it came. You rambled on about how it was cooked all wrong, getting irritated until I finally told you to shut your bloody mouth and eat your food. We finished eating in silence- if I had said anything, I would've complimented the food, and you would've either teased me about liking 'frog food' or launched back into another rant about its preparation.

Needless to say, we skipped out on desert.

"Do you remember that night?" I ask quietly, wanting to reach out and touch your hand, but- of course- I can't do it. You don't say a word, and I foolishly wait to see if you'll speak. You don't. I sigh and run my hand through my hair, taking another drink of my tea. It's starting to grow a little cold now.

"Maybe the first time we really fought? You had so much fun pushing my buttons, didn't you? Come on, you have to remember that," I mock, chuckling quietly and telling it to you just for the sake of reliving the memory.

We were lounging around in your dorm room. You were practicing your sautéing and I was writing a short story for a semi-final grade. It was blissfully quiet until you shouted a short curse in French. I hurried to where you were standing to find you sucking on your finger. Being the idiot you are, you had burned it on the pan. I fussed over it immediately, earning a few phrases similar to, "I can do it myself," and, "Get away, go do your work, I'll be fine." I took it more personally than I should've and when you finally asked me why I even cared, I snapped. I'm almost sorry for that, by the way, but you shouldn't have asked me such an idiotic question. I cared about you- no, I still care about you, Francis- so much more than I ever said. We flung insults at each other: yours in French and mine in English. Even though we didn't fully understand what we were calling each other, the infliction was still there and we didn't speak to each other for days.

"How about the first time I told you I loved you? Even a git like you has to remember that," I scoff, rolling my eyes. But- of course- you say nothing; you don't even flinch as I bring it up. I sigh in resignation and retell that story too, honestly getting a little irritated. You don't seem to be listening, but I continue anyway.

It was a month after our first date, almost two months after we met so informally. There was some French movie playing on your TV screen with the English subtitles scrolling across the bottom. We weren't paying attention, obviously. Just a few minutes after the movie started, you had grown far too interested in my lips and I had followed along happily. The movie was quickly forgotten and, in the heat of the moment, I had leaned in and whispered my confession of love into your ear. You had frozen up a bit, I remember now, but said it back to me in beautiful French (though I never did mention you how much I loved hearing, "Je t'aime trop, Arthur," come from your lips). We spent the night cuddling and repeating the words over and over, just for the sake of assuring each other that it was true.

"You don't remember, do you?" I ask in a broken voice, digging my face in my hands and letting a single sob escape. I think I feel your hand on my shoulder for a second, but- of course- I'm wrong. A sudden burst of anger courses through my veins as everything washes over me again in a fresh wave of pain, something that hasn't happened in weeks.

I look up and stare at your newly carved head stone with tears in my eyes, knowing you won't be speaking to me or touching me or remembering anything any time soon.

"You fucking frog, I hate you so God damned much," I whisper-yell, pounding the ground with my fist and knocking over my now-freezing tea. I stand up and storm away like I did when we fought, my hands clenched in fists and angry tears streaming down my face. I get half way to my car when I realize I left without my mug and I'm sitting in the car when I realize I left with angry words. There's nothing that will ever bother me more than leaving you with angry words, Francis, so I get out of the car walk back to you with drier eyes and an even heavier heart.

I stand in front of you in silence for a moment before apologizing reluctantly. I always made you apologize first, but- of course- I can't do that this time.

"I don't hate you," I say softly, my throat still a bit thick with tears as I run my fingers over the cool stone. "I love you, so much." I can feel my eyes tearing up again, so I take a deep breath to calm down. "Je veuxêtre avec toi pour toujours. Je pensetoujours à toi…tuesl'amour de ma vie," I add softly, my French clean and understandable. I started learning a few weeks ago, aren't you proud? You always wanted me to learn, and so now I am.

"Tu me manques," I say under my breath, kissing my finger before pressing it to the top of the stone. I do it once more before picking up my mug and walking away with my head high.

Dear Francis,

I visited you a few months ago. I know you were there. I know you were listening. I want you to know that I'll be with you soon, alright? I can't wait to see your smile again, to argue over stupid things and have you criticize my cooking. I've perfected my French, so when I see you, I'll greet you in that beautifully awful language. I promise. I know you'll love it and you'll be so happy when you see me that you won't be able to control yourself.

Well, no, that'll be me.

I've decided I'll come tomorrow afternoon. Prepare yourself, frog.

All my love,

Arthur