Sunday, June 27, 2010

He couldn’t believe it.

Rather, he didn’t want to believe it: the moment he’d seen her, the old thrill of apprehension, the anticipation of meeting someone new, had gipped his heart and given it life. He felt ecstatic, and simultaneously intimidated.

Should he go up to her? Maybe he was mistaken: everyone was made out of metal these days. But she’d been one of the first, back when they’d both been happy. He immediately removed himself from that train of thought. Memories were something he didn’t want to get lost in.

He was so engrossed in his internal debate that he didn’t notice her get up and sidle behind him. He was the only one who didn’t; everyone else was either ogling or scowling.

Scissors usually had that effect.

“Hey.”

Paper whirled around. No, no, this was wrong, he hadn’t imagined it like this, he…

“Wow.” There, he’d said something. At least fifty pairs of eyes were trained at them and he was pretty sure they weren’t looking at him. He forged on. “It’s been a long time,” he said. He tried a smile. It came out faltering, awkward. “For a moment there I didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, you look just like the writing material I remember,” she remarked. Her smile was easy, natural. Practiced. The word was practiced.

“Maybe,” he muttered. He looked up. She was quizzical, bemused. “It’s been a long time,” he repeated. He felt with great acuity the rapidly growing crescents under his arms, the integrity of his hair gel degrading. For some reason he felt mortified by the glasses he wore – why hadn’t he worn contacts?

“That’s true.” she said, settling into the seat opposite his. “But it seems like yesterday that we sat in the park and watched the people passing by, and…” She faded off, distracted, obviously reminiscing. Paper was sure she only remembered the good parts. He didn’t. He watched her, unsure whether or not to break her reverie. The former was something he hadn’t done for a long time.

Finally she stirred, and glanced at her watch. “Oh, my god,” she exclaimed. “Look at the time. I’m sorry, my dear, I’ve got to go.” He balked at this. So soon after so long, and they’d barely talked… She was getting up. She was leaving. She was walking out of his life again. He fumbled for words, desperate, unwilling to let her pass.

“Wait!” He’d said something, at least – that was good. “Do you want to meet up sometime?”

Dear Diary:

He’d stood there watching cars and buses and taxis pass by for longer than he could remember.