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I want to talk to you about need.

Not mere ‘desire’ or ‘want’—need. You know the feeling, of course. Last Friday in the restaurant, what happened between us was such a powerful and intense explosion of it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night, and about you, indulging the yearning that’s been building inside me for so many months. I thought that night might help to quench the thirst I felt for you. Like a catalyst for a reaction that fizzles brightly and then is done. But in fact I find that it’s only fueled the fire of my utter desperation for everything you do and are. In short: I want more. I need more.

This isn’t an innocent love letter, far from it. I suppose if you want to put a label on it this is what you might call a lust letter. I’m pouring all my feelings—burning, intense and powerful—into words so that you can read them at your leisure. I wonder where you’ll read them? At home, in the kitchen as you sip your coffee and smile at the things I’m reminding you of? Perhaps you’ll read it on the tube on your way in to work, anticipating the way my eyes will meet yours when you get here, and I’ll smile as I see you blush with recognition. Maybe you’ll read it at work, in the bathroom, shortly after I slip it into your pocket. I like to think of you furtively locking yourself in a stall as you see in my account of what happened in the restaurant just outside where you’re sitting in that moment. Feeling your face grow hot as you get harderand more frustrated, reminiscing but being unable to touch until the restaurant has closed…

As I say, this is about need. You know, I’ve been needing you for so long. When you first came into the restaurant, you were just one of many smart, polite individuals who wanted the sommelier job. I have to say, I usually hate these interviews—too many smarmy men who assume on first glance that I’m a waitress instead of the head chef. I used to take great delight in introducing myself to those who’d made silly sexist assumptions, enjoying the way their face would crumple when they realised they’d made a faux pas that would cost them the job. You were obviously not one of these men, though. Not only did you treat me with respect, but you engaged me in the details: how my kitchen worked and my vision for the restaurant. I understood pretty quickly that unlike some of the other arrogant candidates, you didn’t assume you had anything to teach me, instead you were keen to learn from me. It wasn’t until right at the end of your interview that I even considered whether you might also want to see me naked. But our goodbye handshake fizzed with a sudden burst of chemistry, and I looked into your gorgeous dark eyes in that moment, noted the eagerness in your smile and… bam. That was it. I was hooked on you.