I saw my second fiancee at a softball game tonight. I thought I did, anyway. The woman who was with him must think that I'm a blatant and impenitent harlot, because not only did I do a double-take, but I stared unabashedly for a full minute before finally feeling the flaming daggers she was shooting at me from her eyes. He, of course, was oblivious. I had the rare good taste to avert my eyes at that point, but continued to sneak glances at him throughout the game because - damn - it really could have been him.
I finally realized that - of course - it wasn't him and couldn't have been him in the first place because the person I was staring at was the spitting image of the man I loved twenty-one years ago. The man I was momentarily convinced was a blast from my personal and sordid past was not a day over 20 and neither was the lovely young lady he was sitting with (which leaves open the mystery of why she was threatened enough by this old lady to actually respond censorily to my baffled staring).
Time marches on everywhere but in my head, I suppose. And maybe that's why those memories are still so bittersweet: in my head, it all happened only yesterday, not twenty years ago. In my head, I'm still nineteen. It's only the sudden and stark reality of the morning mirror that reminds me of who I've become (externally, at least).
Strangely enough, I don't feel the slightest bit melancholy. The moment was fleeting (and fundamentally false), but it was wonderful to see him.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment