One of Céline's Lines in "Before Sunset"

My partner is visiting her family this weekend, and I would've joined her but I've developed a nasty cold starting on Wednesday. A year or two ago I watched Richard Linklater's "Before Sunrise" for the first time, and as a hopeless romantic, of course fell hard for it.

So today being Valentine's Day, and having nothing in particular to do after work other than make some food for the weekend and hang out with my dogs, trying to forget the freezing temperatures outside, I decided to watch the sequel to Sunrise, "Before Sunset". I rented it on YouTube, had a quick supper, made a cup of coffee in the moka pot, and then settled in. Sunset is wonderful - kind of a tempered, more measured follow-up, where Jesse and Céline are not yet middle-aged, but also no longer young, at that age where people are making impossibly huge life choices, and where they themselves, by the end of the film, will make another of their own.

Partway through, having met again and wandered to a cafe for a quick coffee, then away to walk some more, they find a boat, a river taxi. And sitting at the edge of that boat, going downriver through the most gorgeous golden light, Céline has a line that leapt out at me: "I feel I was never able to forget anyone I've been with."

Leapt out because that's always been me, too. Having not had a wild and tempestuous life, everyone I've been with romantically in any way has necessarily imprinted themselves on me (I've only had a few relationships - two very short, one lasting decades - and kissed maybe twice as many people).

And I've been thinking about that since finishing the film a couple of hours ago - not just the memories, and the people, but the idea that maybe I'm not as adrift from people who were important to me as it always feels. Maybe also that they're never as far away as I'd tell you if you'd ask. A long time ago I went to visit someone, a brief and ill-advised relationship. We went to a dance, and once we got there, they broke off to greet a couple other friends. While they did so, another one of their friends saw that I was alone. Came up to me, and asked if I wanted to dance. When I said I would, but that I couldn't, that I was useless and altogether uncoordinated, she laughed, was having none of it, and made me dance with her. I remember how happy she made me feel in that moment - the feeling of that strong current that holds you fixed in the here and now, and won't let you turn away.

A couple years later we'd reconnect, fall for each other, have a brief fling - and while I remember that, my strongest memories are for the time when I was in a city in which I knew no one, and felt vulnerable, and she took my hand and danced with me. When she saw my vulnerability, and made sure I felt welcome.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever remembered: how, and by whom. Does she remember the dance, or has it faded, half-recalled or forgotten? Does anyone remember me and events in ways I've forgotten? The film makes a point early on: not everyone's a starry-eyed romantic. Some people are cynics, some falling somewhere in between.

Years ago I kept a journal on the web. Though largely anonymous (search engines sucked, then as now, though for different reasons), and perhaps too open about some things, I know there was quite a bit I didn't write about, that in retrospect I wish I had. There was one particular person I fell for, and who later admitted, thousands of miles away, that she'd fallen for me too. We'd never shared anything beyond close proximity, and long side glances (and, later, hour after hour talking on ICQ and AIM). I wish I'd written more, for my future self. And I've often wondered what she remembers, if anything at all.

Happy Valentine's Day, I guess? Time for a bite of chocolate.