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The movie ends. We all laugh at the intensity. He makes formal introductions. I nod and smile—because I can’t think of anything intelligent to say. We make our way out to the lobby.

I am in agony. COMPLETELY EXPOSED. COMPLETE AGONY. His friends are standing around talking and I’m feeling so very exposed and raw. They are sizing me up discreetly. I’m in their peripheral vision and I can feel it. I want to look at him—for help. But I can’t. He’ll see. He’ll see how much I like him. I want to grab on to his coat and hide behind him and mumble something. Instead. I just stand there exposed and raw. I wrap my arms around myself and look down.

I’m mortified. COMEPLETELY MORTIFIED. My tights are too bright. I have bright-brown legs in dark brown shoes. I look up. One girl is chatting away about the movie. I think she’s saying how she’s mad at her mom for not telling her about the dog. I still can’t find anything intelligent to say. I’m speechless and I’m looking down at my legs. SURELY—surely they’ll figure it out.

Interesting girl C. She’s awfully quiet. Doesn’t say much. What was up with those tights? Why are you hanging out with her? That’ll be the end of it I suppose. I won’t be able to show my face again.

Later, we go for dinner. Just him and me. I’m so nervous from the whole experience—I can’t eat. I can’t even talk. I just look at him and wonder why he’s there.

I stare at his mouth again. I like the way he talks. I like his voice. I know I like what he’s saying—but I’m not paying attention to the words, just the movement of his lips.

I look back at his face. Does he notice me staring? Probably. What have I got to loose this time?

Can I kiss you?

He looks at me sideways. Thinks for a moment, smiles, and nods his head. Sure.

You might know that you like a boy because he comes to pick you up for your first real date in a 1980 blue Mercedes (powered by diesel). And he opens the door for you to get in. And that stupid little gesture makes you feel pretty special–because you already know you like him. And nobody’s ever opened a car door for you before.

And you go out to eat. And he talks. And you push food around on your plate and try to focus on what he’s saying. But all you notice the sound of his voice and the way that he talks.

And when you finally do try to take a bite to eat–you miss your mouth and the food falls back on the edge of the plate and almost on your lap–because you are already so nervous. So you just laugh and push the food around on you plate a bit more and try to think of something clever to say.

So you just smile. And nod. And try to ask intelligent questions. And inside, you’re completely mortified. Because you know you’re intelligent. And smart. And funny. And you have opinions. And normally–normally–you can’t shut up (which is why your nickname is Princess Donkey).

And you finish your dinner date. He drives you home in the tank-disguised-as-a-1980-blue-Mercedes-powered-by-diesel. And when you arrive at your house, you both just sit in the dark car and continue talking for a bit.

And then you make out for a bit.

And that was somehow nice.

And the dark car made it safe.

And you finally say good night and go inside.

And you do your toiletries and get into bed and before you go to sleep, you think–you think you just might like that boy who had taken you out to dinner. And you might just decide to continue to put yourself out there and see what happens.

You might know you like a boy when you’re both just walking along and talking and you find out what he does and where he works and you just say it right out loud, right up front: I don’t like your wines.

And he’s sort of quiet for a moment then he looks at you sideways and says: You haven’t tried my wines. I make a lot of wine.

Then you look at him and tilt your head thoughtfully, and soften it a bit and say: Well. My parents would like your wine. So. It’s ok then.

Then, then, he just smiles with his quiet confidence.

And you just go on walking and talking and putting yourself out there.

I wasn’t going to go out on Halloween. I don’t really know anybody. I usually keep to myself. Except, how am I supposed to become part of the community if I don’t get out and meet people?

I called my friend KatieBird and left a message. I figured if anybody was going to go out on Halloween, KatieBird and Sean would at least be mingling somewhere.

Sean calls me back. It s near the end of Harvest and he’s still at work. But—they will be going out later. Talk to Katie he says. She’ll be out before I will.

I don’t have a costume or anything. I decide to wear some bright red heels, jeans, my new ¾ length leather jacket, and a fedora that I’d bought on Fisherman’s Warf when I’d spent the day in SF with Cindy.

It’s around 8h00 pm. Katie phones and says they’ll be at the B&B or the Ravenous later—around 9h00 or 10h00 pm. I’m half-way out the door already. I decide to head down to the Healdsburg Hotel and treat myself to a drink at the bar. It’s a safe place –for a single woman I think. Pish-tosh. I don’t think I’ll have to worry about fending off rif-raff.

I arrive at the bar. I have no idea what to do. I don’t know anybody. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do when you go for a drink by yourself. I just ask for a red wine. The bartender and other guests tell me they like my hat. I tell them it’s my costume.

After awhile, I talk to the couple next to me. Are you visiting Healdsburg? No. We just bought the building down the street. We’ve opened an organic …. store.

We talk for a while about expensive real estate. I tell them I’m from the Yukon. They tell me about their trip to hell (into the Alaskan wilderness) and back again. We laugh a bit and I promise to go visit their store. They’re exhausted preparing for their store opening—and need to get going.

I check my watch and pay for my drink. Just after 9h00. Time to head over to the B&B to meet KatieBird and co. I know I don’t really have a costume. But somebody’s left some glasses that have pulsating light effects with the bartender. I tease him and say I’ll leave a larger tip if I can use them. I put them on and top things off with the fedora. He gives me some dry ice in a paper cup to add to the effect.

Cool. That’s my Halloween costume. Cool. I smile and walk over to the B&B.

There’s nobody there. It’s completely empty. I check my phone for messages. Katie’s left a message that they’re at the Ravenous. I shrug and head on over.

The place is packed when I get there. I don’t know anybody—so I just look to see if I can recognize Katie—at least. I find her out on the back porch.

We order a drink and talk. I don’t know what we’re talking about when she motions to somebody standing behind her—Jen, meet C. C—Jen. I look up and smile. He finds out I’m from Canada and says something about the last time he went—he stayed at Whistler. I find out it was a business trip. I laugh and say the next time he goes to Whistler on a business trip, I’m coming with him.

We figure out we’ve met before—on two occasions at least. Once a few years ago, I’d gone to a BBQ at a friend of a friend – but that was just before Mr. X moved back in. I chose to focus on trying to repair my marriage than meeting new people. Now—marriage over, I’m back to meeting new people. The second time would have been at Katie and Sean’s 4th of July party. But I only remember my friends Carol and Jimmy there. We’d sat out on their porch, drank some wine, and watched the fireworks show that was set off in the field behind their house.

We continue to talk. I don’t remember what we talk about, but I think I’m now finishing my second drink. I turn around to ask Katie if she wants another—but she’s not there. I turn back, he’s gone too. I shrug and go inside.

The bartenders are crazy. There’s too many people this Halloween night and it’s three people deep before you can find a space to order. I squeeze in. And wait. And wait.

Katie appears and starts talking to the lady on my right. The lady turns and says my friend has mentioned I have space for rent. She needs space for a week or so. As I’m talking to her about what I can offer, he squeezes into the space that Katie just left.

HEY I say. HEY. Where did you guys go? I’m happy now. Happy with two drinks in my system. Happy to see him right there.

Can I buy you a drink? I ask.

He looks at me a sideways, thinks for a moment, smiles and nods his head. Sure.

K. What are you drinking?

Whiskey and water.

Right. I order the drinks and hand them out. The lady says she’ll call me tomorrow about renting the room and disappears into the throng party-goers.

He and I leave the bar and move into a corner of the restaurant. I think we sit down and continue to talk. I’m not focusing on the conversation. I’m staring at his mouth. I like the way he talks. I’m sure I like what he’s saying—but I’m not paying attention to the words, just the movement of his lips.

I look back at his face. Did he notice me staring? Probably. What have I got to loose though? I just ask.

Can I kiss you?

He looks at me sideways again. Thinks for a moment, smiles, and nods his head. Sure.

I have had some turmoil in my life over the last few years. I have been between jobs, between contracts, between cities, between countries, between houses, between relationships—well, I’ve just been between. When I moved into my current house, I put off unpacking all the boxes and cartons. I didn’t want to unpack and have to sort through things and have to find places for stuff that I may end up moving in a few months or so. I’d been between so many things, that I thought this was another stop between moves.

However, I’m tired of looking at boxes and cartons. I’d rather look at my books and photographs and sort out if I really need all of those sweaters and old shoes and every birthday card my parents have ever given me. So recently, I’ve been sorting out (and through) things. Some things have been harder than others: divorcing, moving, renovating, refinancing. But other things—like sorting through the box that contains my memorable life experiences—those things have been an incredible pleasure. Among the pictures and birthday cards and collection of weird trinkets that only mean something to me, I found a stack of letters that a former boyfriend had written me over 15 years ago.

We had met in early February in 1992. In France. We were both on our year abroad. I was from a small town in Northern Canada. He was from Scotland. I don’t think I understood a word he said for the first few weeks (and I might even venture to say‚ months) that we were interested in one another.

One afternoon, I found this letter under the door to my room in the residence where I stayed. Granted, I believe I had walked out to his residence earlier that day. I had walked approximately five kilometeres just to knock on his door and ask—inwardly cringe—if he would “go out with me”.

That was me. Rather–that was me–then. I guess when I see something I like, I just say so. I just lay it all out there (my heart that is—or was). Later in life, I realize I’m not so generous with my heart anymore. I have been hurt. I have caused pain. I have been in places I never want to be again. I told somebody once that I felt raw. Sushi-raw, “…like all of my skin had been peeled off, my heart had been ripped out, and trampled on, and left to turn rancid under the California sun.” (Kinda dramatic, I know, but when you’re going through it, it’s better just to be poetic and get through it. And then, it’s over and done.) Another friend would say: “The only way out is through. Darlin’. The only way out is through.” But now, I digress.

I had a lot of fun that time in France. I learned about myself. I learned personal identity. I learned national identity. When you have to explain yourself and your language and your country in another language, you learn a lot. I learned how to speak French–and I returned to Canada with a heavy Scottish brogue. And my boyfriend– well my boyfriend waited until the day after I left France to send me this letter when he finally said: “I love you.” Or–at least he said: “I think I do.”

Regardless, he finally said IT. He said he didn’t want to think about IT or maybe he hadn’t found the courage to think about it–so he never thought about IT, and therefore–he never said IT. But I guess eventually he did think about IT. And he wrote IT in a letter. And I still have that letter. I just found that letter in a box of all my memorable life experiences.

And this is the letter that inspired me to create this website to find out, collect, and share how other people say IT. How other people say: “I love you”.

That’s about it right now. I don’t know how to encourage people to say it–or when they do, to send it in, but I guess I’ll start finding out.

But in the meantime, I highly recommend that when you can–if you can–to sit back later in your life when you are finished being between things and you are finally through it all and sort through your box of memorable life experiences and re-read your collection of love letters.