If they didn’t know better, people would swear you were joined at the hip. Aside from gym class you were stuck together like glue. Thick as thieves. Two peas in a pod – all that.
You were best friends – you practically grew up together – you’ve known each other since 4th grade – you never thought of each other as boyfriend and girlfriend – you just didn’t look at each other that way. When you got curious she would punch you. When she got curious you would make faces.
You both tried – daddy kisses is as far as it got – when you were thirteen you finally went “exploring” – you felt creepy – she felt creepy – felt like incest – you both laughed like you were nervous. You left it alone.
And then came high school – all the awkward and gangly went away – the kids you were grew up. You weren’t looking at each other like you used to – you stopped telling each other secrets – you stopped riding your bikes and started riding the bus.
But you still thought she was your buddy, your pal – you never thought about making a play for her. You were just friends. Maybe not.
Somewhere around Grad Night she got serious. Lip lock and tangled tongues – holding on for dear life – pressed tightly like the world was ending – holding on like the very last time.
And it was. She went away to college. You wound up in a uniform in a place with a name you couldn’t pronounce. Letters regular and then drifted off – phone calls went missing – parents moved away. You forgot about her, except for holidays. Memory pleasant and vague – fading with years.
Not till later – not till much-much later – 20 year reunion – somebody showed you a photo – the two of you. You clueless and she couldn’t wait any longer. All those signals – flying crazy around your head. Hit by a wall of stupid and missed opportunity. No one knows what happened to her. Shrugged shoulders and nodding heads. Rumors – heard somewhere somebody said something – can’t remember who – lives in Portland – had Cancer – married three times – read an article. Another regret to toss in the file cabinet – the one overflowing. Never too late to have a good cry – might’ve been happy – might’ve been a different life.
And somebody digs up a tape of KHJ, February 25, 1967 – Real Don Steele – fills the dance floor – finally it falls into place.
