He held out his hand for me to take. I gently placed my smaller one in his, memorizing how the creases of his hand felt wrapped around my own. Our hands' creases both telling the stories in our lives and now those stories were one. I imagined him holding both my hands when they were tiny baby-sized hands, discovering every touch as brand new territory uncovered. My hands were those of a baby again. As he stared into my eyes, a warmth filled me. The kind that you feel when the sun beats down on you at the beach, sort of like a blanket protecting you from the cold. It felt like home.
He opened his mouth (so much like mine!) to speak. He said, "How about we get a slice of pizza? You're very sexy." He was not my dad. Just some Greek guy who liked to bang young chicks. It was a real conversation with the dad I never had.