I’ve met you before with the water up to our waists. You were talking about
quiches, about whether blue cheese was an appropriate ingredient for them.
I lost the urge to find out when I finally went home from being wet. We met
again in another setting, but one also with water. Yes, I remember it well,
it was a bathtub in Paris, with stout cute legs. I tried to allow you to be
modest, but alas, it was a bathtub. And now we meet again, rain coming
through the shine. My page is always wet, but hopeful, for it is also never