During the winter of my senior year of college, I had the world's most perfect kiss. I was at a party, and I spotted him across the room. He was sitting in a reclining chair, with his leg propped up. He was on the soccer team and had broken it scoring the winning goal of a game, although I wouldn't find this out until later.
I kept staring at him, and eventually he motioned me over to sit down next to him. We talked for hours, although I don't remember anything except his blue, blue eyes. Eventually he offered to walk me home, and although I demurred due to his broken leg and crutches and the fact that it was 20 degrees outside, he insisted, and so we walked. Well, I walked. He hobbled.
And outside my door, in a simple and natural movement that both took me by surprise and swept me off my feet, he kissed me. And I felt myself float upward. He wrote my number on his hand, smiled, and hobbled down the street.
I never heard from him again.
Until Friday night at my friend's birthday party. I recognized the guy in an instant. It took five years of overlapping social circles, but there he was.
And I didn't go near him this time.
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5 comments:
Good call.
Good call? Really? Why?
He should have called, but didn't. In a perfect world you'd know why because he'd have told you. Had I been in your shoes I might have taken it upon myself to find out.
I wanted to, but I didn't think he'd remember me at all, and I didn't feel like being rejected twice.
I (anonymous 10:40) said "good call" because this dude clearly sucks and doesn't know a good thing when he sees it, and therefore doesn't get a second chance (or even the pleasure of your company if you brushed him off).
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