Four years ago...

The lights were dim in the Oak Room on that blistery November night.

The snow outside the hotel lounge's crystal clear bay windows was whirling in the wind. The city skyline could barely been seen. Inside, I sat demurely on a maroon velvet couch, wearing a large belted men's black pinstripe shirt as a dress and red Jimmy Choo heels. He was standing at the bar, ordering another White Russian, while glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

The jazz band across the room was playing "Christmas Time is Here."

It was my first time at the reputable Oak Room. Surrounded by sparkling martini glasses, black designer cocktail dresses, and glistening Rolex watches, I felt so grown up. I was 22. He was 26.

He came back to the couch and handed me my drink. Our hands touched and I gazed into his eyes, before blushing.

In that moment, I didn't know we would spend the next four years breaking each other's hearts. I didn't know we would spend the next four years mending them. I didn't know about his health problems which would occur. I didn't know about the weight I would gain. I didn't know about the jobs we would lose. I didn't know we would one day be living together in a tiny apartment, struggling, practically penniless, to get by.

I didn't even know if there was going to be a next date.

But the future didn't matter. I enjoyed sitting next to this good-looking man, who talked with passion about poetry and his classical guitar training. I enjoyed the way he laughed at my stories. I enjoyed feeling pretty.

I didn't want to be anywhere else.

Last night, I felt that again.