The Reunion

Journal

At the reunion, I saw her across the gym. Forty years, and my heart did the exact same stupid thing it did in 1985.

We were seventeen. She was the girl who beat me at every debate. I was the boy who carried her books and pretended it was heavy.

We wrote letters all through college. Then life happened — jobs, marriages, kids, other states. The letters stopped in '89.

She walked over and said, 'You still owe me a milkshake from 1985.' Just like that, forty years folded in half.

I'd had two tumblers made, just in case. 'Class of '85. Still us.' We clinked them, and the whole table went quiet, then cheered.

Then the DJ played our song. She held out her hand. 'One dance. For old times' sake.' It was not for old times' sake.

At midnight, we sat on the school steps like we were seventeen again. She said, 'We wasted forty years.' I said, 'We found our way back.'

Forty years apart. One reunion. Two tumblers. Some people aren't a chapter. They're the whole book.