Recently I've Been Wondering...

I have this fantasy. Or, I did.

The summer after our freshmen year of college, the both of us decide to stay home and take a temporary job. You most likely work in some trendy young setting, and hopefully I'm not stuck waitressing again. Through various contacts with old high school buddies, you and I find out that we are but a half hour drive away from each other. A week later, you call me, and I answer with my nonchalant voice, the same way I’ve been taking your phone calls ever since I met you. Hey, how’s it going? Would you like to go out for lunch, you say. Oh, sure, I reply. I haven’t seen you for so long. Of course. Where do you want to meet? The Thai place? Harvest Moon? Or—dare I say it—the café inside Barnes and Noble?

In the end, the meeting place doesn’t matter. It is completely inconsequential. We meet somewhere at some time on some day, and I see you wearing something and you see me wearing something, and soon afterwards, we’re talking. We’re finally face-to-face, and we’re chatting about everything and nothing. I discover that you haven’t forgotten any of my high school crushes, and you’re pleased to hear that I still remember the time we threw Kraft’s cheese out a car window onto the windshield of some guy’s car. I feel great. I haven’t met with anyone from school except you, and I’m hoping you feel the same way. I keep thinking that it’s such a relief that you haven’t forgotten me.

In life’s subtle way of pushing the plot forward, we begin to meet for lunch once a week in Rome, at a different place each time. We look forward to it, partly because our jobs are so boring and partly because we always have something to talk about. I like this routine. I’m used to this routine.

Weeks pass. Months pass.

And just like that, we’re at our last lunch date. I’m slurping soup, and you’re holding a sandwich with a strange look on your face. I know what you’re thinking. Me too, me too. I feel the same. I say it first. It’s the last lunch date. It’s almost the end of the summer. Why don’t we meet this Friday night for movies? Your place, my place—it doesn’t matter. Stunned, you recover quickly and say, sure, let’s do that. What do you want to watch? I wave my hand. Oh, something funny. How about [insert title]? You’re always going on and on about that movie, and I never get around to watching it.

Fast forward to Friday night. We’re in the middle of the film, and I’m sitting in your living room, my glance alternating between the screen and the empty glass of beer in your hand. Mine is too. You gesture to my drink and ask if I want another from the fridge. Sure. You stand up and walk away, leaving me to my thoughts. I’m getting doubts. Maybe I shouldn’t have another. I can’t handle alcohol. I should definitely back off. My mind changed, I wander into the kitchen where I almost run into you and the fresh, unopened can of Bud Light. I notice two things. One: I’m not drunk as I think I am. Two: I had regular beer the first time, not Bud Light. I laugh and say, what? You think I can’t handle another regular? You grin and say yes. I make a face. You make one back. We start laughing for no good reason, and my eyes run all over you, taking in everything from your messy, sandy hair to your thin polo shirt that always, always, hangs on your shoulders so that you look anorexic. Which isn’t true. Is still not true?

To make sure, I kiss you. I don’t know where that reasoning came from, but there it is. And so now we’re kissing and you’re cupping my face, and I’m pulling and tugging your shirt because it’s so soft and loose and the both of us have no idea what happened to that can of beer. We don’t ask questions. We don’t say a word.

And it’s lovely. So lovely.

/fantasy