Every year, I took a holiday. I went to Florence, there’s this cafe, on the banks of the Arno. Every fine evening, I’d sit there and order a Fernet Branca. I had this fantasy, that I would look across the tables and I’d see you there, with a wife, and maybe a couple of kids. You wouldn’t say anything to me, nor me to you. But we’d both know that you’d made it, that you were happy.

Imagine opening your door to see Tom standing in the rain. You were supposed to have a date with him this afternoon, but you cancelled last minute, and he came to find out why. You invite him inside, but he refuses to come in until you tell him why you stood him up. You pause for a moment, finding your words, when lightning strikes nearby, jolting you back to reality. You tell him you were worried you’d have nothing interesting to talk about - you’re a rather shy person and going out with him made you nervous beyond belief. He steps up to the door as you step aside to let him in, and says, “I can do all the talking if you like. Or we don’t have to talk at all.” He takes your face in his hands, tilting your head up to meet his before settling his soft, wet lips on yours.

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Imagine struggling with your insecurities in a relationship with Tom. You can only fathom how many women all over the world want to be with him, and sometimes you feel like it’s just a matter of time until he finds one he loves more than you. It breaks his heart to hear that you feel this way. He takes your hands in his, and tries to tell you that regardless of how many women want him, he only wants you. “No one could ever compare to my gorgeous girl.”