I stare at you, but you don’t notice.
I ignore the scraping forks and jumbled conversations. I even ignore the young waitress.
“You order for me. You know what I like,” I mutter to my husband. I don’t even hear him place our order. I am focused only on you. It’s been so many years. I barely recognize my own reflection. How could I possibly recognize you after six decades?
The little girl at your table speaks. You smile… and I know.
The wrinkles are gone and you are a boy again. Its summer and we are sitting on your tailgate drinking soda. There is no breeze and the heat is suffocating. The only escape is to wade into the clear, cool river. We leave the truck and walk to the edge of the water. I flinch as my foot plunges into the icy water. You laugh. Suddenly, I’m in your arms. I squirm and struggle as you walk further away from shore. “No! Don’t!” I shriek.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Not really,” I smirk.
“Just for that…” and I’m unsupported.
I fall for a second before impacting the smooth surface. I want to inhale as I hit the cold water. Every nerve in my body is in shock. I claw and kick my way to the surface. I am barely keeping my head above water and you are still laughing. My jaw is locked and my eyes are narrowed. “That wasn’t funny!”
“It was a little funny,” you reply. At least you’ve stopped laughing. You reach out and envelope me in your arms. I let you, but only because I’m getting tired of treading water.
“You are so immature,” I grumble.
Your arms are warm and my body is adjusting to the water temperature. My anger fades with the chill. Then you kiss me. I don’t care that I’m supposed to be mad at you anymore. As long as you love me, I don’t care about anything else.
“Here you go!” the waitress rudely interrupts my reminiscing to bring our drinks, “Your food will be right out.”
I look back and you are standing. You lean heavily on a cane as you and the little girl walk toward the exit. You near my table and notice me staring at you. You nod politely as you would nod at anyone you made eye contact with. You do not recognize me. I am glad. I want to remain beautiful and young in your memory. I want to haunt you as you have haunted me.
“Do you know him?” my husband asks.
“No,” I reply.
With a mixture of sorrow and relief, I realize I have not lied. I do not know the man who just passed by my table. I once knew a boy. I once loved him in that thrilling, passionate, irrational, dangerous way that all young women love young men. But, I do not know or love that man.
The waitress brings our plates. She sets down a plate of chicken fried chicken with mashed potatoes. It’s my favorite. “Thank you,” I smile at my husband. He knows what I like.
“Would you like anything else?” the waitress inquires.
“No,” I reply, “I have everything I need.”
