It was the morning for my monthly massage. That one hour that does as much for me mentally as well as physically. Seka, my Czechoslovakian angel, always imparts words of wisdom during our 60 minutes together.

I arrived; she kissed me with her greeting. “Bella, how are you? You look so good, so good. Any pains? Any injuries?”

I smiled, immediately at ease. “No, just the shoulder. Too much computer work. But nothing else.”

“And how is the boy?”

I paused, took a deep breath, then sighed, “The boy is no more. We’re not seeing each other.”

“How long were you together?”

“Two months.”

“Lori, bella, you are so lucky. You had two months of love. Of butterflies. I am 57 years old. Do you know how many of my friends have never felt that? I talk to them about the butterflies and they say, ‘Butterflies? What are these butterflies of which you speak?’ You are always telling me about the butterflies. You are very, very lucky.”

I thought for a moment. We did have two very fun months together. The nights on his boat. The picnic on the beach. Sharing roast beef sandwiches and Merlot in 15 knot winds. Not caring that the sand cut our faces. The nights at Tommy’s, sipping Herradura anejo and sharing stories. A weekend in Vegas. Dancing until sunrise. Tender kisses. Simply being with each other, my head in his lap, as we watched movies, lazily talking about whatever entered our minds. And the laughter. So much laughter.

But there were problems. Problems that eclipsed the laughter, problems that crept into the lazy moments, casting doubt on the reality we experienced.

But for now, I choose not to remember those. As she kneads at me, as she eases all tension from my stiff muscles, I choose only to remember the love.