First Name Last Name at Gmail Dot Com

No bells or whistles. No cutesy play on words, puns or double entendres. He was never into that. Just his name at gmail dot com. First name last name at gmail dot com. Not a period or dash separating first and last name. Not even an underscore.

That’s how his email appeared.

I sat back stunned, strawberry and banana yogurt on spoon halfway up to my dropped jaw. I peered closer to my phone, not quite believing my eyes.

Replacing the spoon back into the plastic container for fear of choking, I looked around to see if anyone was acting strangely. Maybe, just maybe, I had slipped into a dream of sorts? I had texted my sister earlier in the day inquiring if it was appropriate to take a wee little nap on the toilet. Asking for a friend, of course. She had instructed me to return to my desk where I sat and stared at my phone as soon as my lunch break started.

First name last name at gmail dot com. No subject. Of course not.

Michael. 

How long had it been since I thought of him? Impossible to say really as he had never fully left my mind even, what, thirty years later? I opted against doing the actual math, figuring out the last time I had seen him and how old we were because it didn’t really matter. It was thirty plus years; I knew for sure as I had been married thirty plus years. 

My mind went back to those nights spent together, typical teenagers filled with angst and passion. We were in love, no doubt about it, but our relationship was far from a fairy tale. He was the cool kid, and I the book worm. Were we Romeo and Juliet? Not quite, but we were star-crossed lovers in our own special way. 

I never felt those highs and lows before or since. That rattling in my chest as my heart pounded uncontrollably when he looked at me with those eyes, spoke my name, caressed me. The emotion matched in depth when he canceled on a Saturday night for me to retreat into my bedroom wondering what I had done wrong. Then the ultimate end with despair engulfing me for weeks on end. 

What had caused the breakup? We had broken up and gotten back together so many times I didn’t know that was truly the final end. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him, or the last words exchanged.

I searched for him on Facebook on more than one occasion, finally finding him on his wife’s page after going down that rabbit hole of friends of friends. His face had aged as the years went by, and his hair turned gray. He stood with his wife and daughters as the women smiled for the camera. He, of course, was straight faced; still the cool guy.

I daydreamed of the casual encounter at the mall. “Holy shit,” I would exclaim, not letting on that I had stalked him for months, even followed him there. “I can’t believe it!” We would casually kiss as old friends do, but would it be a peck on the cheek or something more? Something much more? Something leading to an exchange of numbers, then a secret affair. 

I googled his name, got his address and studied his neighborhood online from every angle. I knew if I drove past his house even one time it would turn into another trip around the block and then another until I caught sight of him, perhaps raking the leaves or mowing the lawn. It would only begin to satisfy the beast that would awaken. I never did take that drive, not daring the temptation.

I thought of my husband. What would he think of my running away with an old boyfriend, the love of my life? An unforgivable act, it would be the end of the road for us.  Truth be told, I would be okay with that. My marriage was routine, comfortable at best, after thirty plus years. Do you trade in lukewarm for red hot? I didn’t know.

I looked back at my phone. First name last name at gmail dot com. No subject. My heart pounded as the hand of the overhead clock ticked off the minutes of my lunch break. Did I dare open it? If not, then four hours of excruciating suspense as cell phones were frowned upon during work hours. Unless, of course, hidden away on the toilet while texting my sister.

My recurrent fantasy of bumping into each other hadn’t stopped at the casual kiss or more at the mall. It progressed into dinners and walks in the park that included our children. He had two adult daughters; I had two adult sons. In my mind’s eye, my sons would like him, even adore him, as I had all those years ago. Being nature lovers, outdoorsy types, we would do family trips, hikes and bonfires. I saw him winking at me across the flames, coming close to cover me with his jacket, sitting next to me as we watched the kids enjoy the simple pleasures. He casually put his arm around me, and I leaned against the body that I knew so well, hearing his heartbeat, feeling contentment.

I would open my home to his girls, listen to their stories, dance with them to their favorite songs as only girls can do. Quiet evenings spent with glasses of wine after devouring home-cooked meals would become our tradition while discussing boyfriends and ambitions.

Meanwhile, his wife and my husband drifted into the background of our love story. Because life works out like that, doesn’t it? No messy divorces, shouting matches or bitterness in my fairy tale. So perfect was the picture that it became painful to acknowledge that it wasn’t real.

What did he want after all those years? I knew he thought of me, how could he not? What we had was something one doesn’t easily forget. Did his wife know about me? The ex-girlfriend, the first love? Did he fantasize about me? Have we dreamed the same dream and met in a land where fantasies are reality? Did our paths ever cross, perhaps stopped at the same red light but neither of us turning to see the other?

First name last name at gmail dot com. I clicked on the email.

Two words appeared on the tiny screen as the boss made his way around the maze of cubicles. Two words that had been the catalyst of our cycle repeating itself over and over again. 

Two simple words all those years later. 

“I’m sorry.”

 I switched off the phone. My thoughts spun around trying to make sense of those words thirty years later. I was shocked but not surprised at all as if I had somehow expected those two words.

The hunger from my missed lunch made itself known as the uneaten yogurt mocked me from the garbage can. I reached inside my bag, finding some trail mix packed by my husband for those ‘just in case’ moments. Is lukewarm better than red hot, I wondered again. Hiding my phone beneath my desk, I stared at his first name last name at gmail dot com email address and hit delete.