tkam*
We don’t talk much any more. We don’t talk at all, in fact; once a month, perhaps, we’ll IM a bit and square things away. We’ll catch up; figure out who’s who and doing what. I guess we’ve always been that way, ever since my family visited hers about twenty years ago. Our parents were college friends, and they did what they could to improve relations between Canada and America. Unfortunately, we offspring were uncooperative.
“Did you hear?” I had asked, “Canada might finally be ratified as the 51st state!”
My younger counterpart did not take well to such faux news. Fortunately, kindergarten had not provided her with the necessary skills and knowledge set to refute me appropriately. I was just old enough to be plagued by guilt, however, and so spent the remainder of the week playing house or dolls or whatever else purgatory demanded of me.
We kept in touch over the years, though I haven’t seen her since. Just a few letters a year with photos sent back and forth, a phone call every now and then, and then emails in fits and spurts. Nothing serious until I finished college the year she started. We were on the phone when the girl I was dating at the time rang in on call waiting. I had trouble with the switch, said the wrong name, and listened to shrieking for about a minute before I simply switched back. She asked me who it was.
“My ex-girlfriend,” I said.
“Oh, the one with the brick earrings?”
“No, the one I was dating right up to the point I accidentally called her your name and didn’t get a chance to explain. It was always like that: scream first, reason later.”
She laughed, scolded me a bit, and we settled into a new conversation about relationships, one we’d never bothered to have. I ignored my call waiting that night. In previous conversations, we would talk about hobbies, or why pop music was embarrassing but inevitably necessary, or how our parents didn’t seem to have ever been single. They simply couldn’t have survived such a thing. But we had a different sort of talk that night, and she had some singular insights. I groused about girls, she laughed about guys, and I accidentally wondered aloud if I would ever manage to get along with anyone for any length of time.
“But all you need is One,” she said.
"I don't need one, I need a miracle," I told her. "Maybe one every year."
"No, you need the One. It's capitalized." She was right. And when the idea finally stuck; when I finally understood what someone nearly five years my junior had understood long before I would, I found her.
The One.
*Not all of this is true. You figure out what is, and what isn't. Happy birthday, tkam. And stop being so cryptic.
“Did you hear?” I had asked, “Canada might finally be ratified as the 51st state!”
My younger counterpart did not take well to such faux news. Fortunately, kindergarten had not provided her with the necessary skills and knowledge set to refute me appropriately. I was just old enough to be plagued by guilt, however, and so spent the remainder of the week playing house or dolls or whatever else purgatory demanded of me.
We kept in touch over the years, though I haven’t seen her since. Just a few letters a year with photos sent back and forth, a phone call every now and then, and then emails in fits and spurts. Nothing serious until I finished college the year she started. We were on the phone when the girl I was dating at the time rang in on call waiting. I had trouble with the switch, said the wrong name, and listened to shrieking for about a minute before I simply switched back. She asked me who it was.
“My ex-girlfriend,” I said.
“Oh, the one with the brick earrings?”
“No, the one I was dating right up to the point I accidentally called her your name and didn’t get a chance to explain. It was always like that: scream first, reason later.”
She laughed, scolded me a bit, and we settled into a new conversation about relationships, one we’d never bothered to have. I ignored my call waiting that night. In previous conversations, we would talk about hobbies, or why pop music was embarrassing but inevitably necessary, or how our parents didn’t seem to have ever been single. They simply couldn’t have survived such a thing. But we had a different sort of talk that night, and she had some singular insights. I groused about girls, she laughed about guys, and I accidentally wondered aloud if I would ever manage to get along with anyone for any length of time.
“But all you need is One,” she said.
"I don't need one, I need a miracle," I told her. "Maybe one every year."
"No, you need the One. It's capitalized." She was right. And when the idea finally stuck; when I finally understood what someone nearly five years my junior had understood long before I would, I found her.
The One.
*Not all of this is true. You figure out what is, and what isn't. Happy birthday, tkam. And stop being so cryptic.