I remember you

She had been in love with that boy for as long as she remembered. A high school crush that never withered out. A long lost love, lost before it was even found. A longing, a drive, a promise. An overwhelming desire. Lust at first sight. Call it what you will, she could never forget him. He was her go-to fantasy, a yardstick for a male, a regulative ideal.

As a child, you sometimes suspect you don't belong. As a teen, you are positive. By the time your hormonal system is in full bloom, the one certainty you have is you are alone in the world. A world which, you suspect, is probably out to get you. And then – someone comes along and you reckon – they're not like any other. A soulmate, a twin soul, a mate, a twin, a soul. They become your best friend, your first love, your teenage crush. Sometimes (seldom) all of the above. Sometimes (often) a shakespearean tragedy of unrequited love, rival factions, and malicious plots woven by petty antagonists.

They had met in their teens, and they were instantly drawn towards each other. Back then, it was a meeting of souls, a goofy friendship, an asymmetrical arrangement, almost ancillary. He was slightly older (fact), and she felt he was way more brilliant, handsome, gentle, funny, kind, clever, attentive, resourceful, and worthy than (1) any other boy (2) her. Not necessarily in that order: attractive boys were legion, she was just not that great. She was not a big fan of herself. Well, apparently, this boy was. Much to her surprise.

She could not tell exactly how it started (of course she could, she memorised every single interaction they ever had, including far away glances), but they got to get along, until they became friends. Well – he did. She just downright adored him. She drunk up every word his mouth ever uttered. He sought her company, she loved it, she tried to play it cool, he seemed to buy it, they had a wonderful time when they were together, his girlfriend was nice to her too, she liked that. She was nothing but thankful. She wouldn't even dream of being jealous. She couldn't aspire to any more than she had. Hell, she never even dared to aspire to the sweet sweet deal she got. She got to look at him up close. To listen to him for ages. To have him listen to her. And pay attention. And laugh. They'd laugh a lot. There was laughter and kindness and so much learning. They learnt important things from each other: how to laugh, how to listen. How to long. She learned a great deal about longing. About lust, as well. The way he absentmindedly rubbed his own neck while talking to her. The way she made up silly jokes in order to mask, avert, stave off, defuse her maddening teenage desire.

Those experiences were formative. They grew up together, in more than one way. With each other, they discovered and decided what they were and wanted to be. Back then, they were still building their own identities. And they became building blocks for each other, incorporating those early experiences in whatever they would carry within themselves for the rest of their lives. In that sense, they were never apart.

Still, they had not seen each other in years. Except for one fleeting occasion in which she ran into him in a concert hall. She was actually running, as fast as she could manage to do it in a crowded lounge right before a concert, and he was standing with some friends in what turned up to be her way. They almost bumped into each other. Or rather – she almost ran him over. He was peacefully and tidily socialising, while she was racing, disheveled and unruly. He smiled as he saw her, beamingly. She never noticed, or believed it, but they obviously were deeply moved by each other. It was absolutely mutual, but she never had enough clarity to even grasp it, let alone the courage to acknowledge it. He greeted her warmly, managing his surprise much better than she did hers: his was mixed with unapologetic delight, hers was tainted with confusion, and that hint of guilt she could never avert, when it came to him. As if she was never quite worthy.

Her mother must have seen him, because – when she finally reached her, her mother seemed very much amused, which was not an usual feature, and asked who was the boy that had made her blush. She sulked.

They had not seen or talked to each other in many, many years – when they met again, at a dinner party. She almost froze. He gave her the same empathic – and emphatic – smile he always had set aside for her. Not especially for her, but for her as well. He greeted her as warmly as ever, while she wrestled with an almost overwhelming whirlwind of emotion. She was set out to explain who she was, she assumed it had been too long. She started to mutter “I don't know if you remember me”, but he didn't let her finish. Calmly, firmly, warmly – glowingly – he interrupted what she was about to say:

– I know exactly who you are. You haven't changed one bit.

She flinched, tried to put herself back together in a hurry. Of course she had: it had been years and years, they were no longer teenagers, or even young (whatever that means). It had been years of round-the-clock heartache, abuse, deceit, just sheer bad luck. An ulcer, an abortion, a broken heart, definitely a bad liver and an unconditional love for Tom Waits, the one man who had never let her down. She paused, as she suddenly realised: present company excluded. If only she had remembered the lessons she learned from him in their youth, and kept to that standard. If only she had stuck with kind silly boys, instead of opening up her life and heart for what she had been through. Trying to react fast, she had already started to answer back:

– You... – but she bit her tongue, and swallowed her words. She quickly diverted:

– You... haven't changed either.

She was lying through her teeth. He had changed. Of course he had. He was one million times better. The very cute boy she had met in high school was now a grown up man. An adult, affectionate, attractive, amiable, adorable, amazingly sexy, single man. She knew it instantly: he looked, smelt, felt – extremely, utterly – single. She could almost taste it.

– Where are you sitting? – He asked. – I want to sit next to you.

She smiled as they walked together toward their table. It was going to be one night to remember.