I haven’t really talked to her in so long, but I’ve wanted to. Ever since I read her writings, I’ve been eager to reconnect. She slides into the booth on the same side as me. Unexpectedly it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. Instead as she angles her body toward me, I feel a little happy at our closeness. As she talks, her hair falls in front of her face. The light glints off her glasses. Her smile is like green tea in the summer. It strikes me how much we’ve both changed since we were younger. When we were younger our relationship was filled with competitive glances and ambitious plans. Our plans have grown with our age, but now instead of a stubborn compatibility we exchange soft smiles. She’s less headstrong, less inconsiderate. I’m more tolerant and understanding of the world and much less likely to pick a fight.
She’s grown up beautifully, and I hate that I notice. I hate that I know that she fits my type perfectly: bookish and interested in learning, ambitious and with an old soul. She’s politically active. She’s passionate with a love for people and a drive to change the world. Even in appearance she fits my type: from her round glasses to her short mousy brown hair. I always have had an attraction to the type of artsy person who wears scarves and Mom jeans, and she is no exception. I find myself averting my eyes more than usual, not just out of nervousness but also out of a sense of self consciousness. She’s my friend, and I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about what it would be like if we were together.
It feels odd because childhood me definitely was not into childhood her. I was very different then, and so was she. But suddenly the petals of memory feel wilted. Every hug, every time sharing a bed, everything done in the most innocent of intentions now makes me feel odd and unsettled.
I think of what my Mom would think if in some alternate universe we ended up dating. I’m not out to my Mom, and I don’t think she would be okay with it initially, but if I came home with my friend who my Mom considers an extension of the family; if I came home with a girl that she holds in such high esteem, I don’t see how she couldn’t come to respect it expediently. But it’s an inane thought anyhow. As far as I know, she’s straight or at least thinks she’s straight, so it’s not even a possibility. And I don’t have feelings for her. I just feel like if I met her now, and I was a tad bit bolder, I might have asked her out for a cup of coffee. But as it is, we have too much history.
The thing is, she’s the only person who could actually find this blog post if she looked. I worry a little bit that she might. But this is who I am. And if she finds this blog I have a bit more to worry about than this post.