It was scary to see him again. We’d seen each other in school, of course, but that was nothing more than a: “Oh, hey.” And then a “um… yeah. Hi.” The “um… yeah. Hi” would be me. His wording was always more smooth and precise, so urbane (seventh grade vocabulary. The only reason I remembered that was because it described him so perfectly).
My hair was in a messy bun, hastily put together when I dragged myself out of bed to respond to the ringing doorbell. After tripping over half-packed suitcases that reminded me of my impending move to New York, I made it to my bedroom window that looked over the front yard. Seeing him standing there with his hands clasped behind his back (his slightly-nervous-but-sucking-it-up-like-a-man stance) fully woke me up and sent a flood of memories that seemed so carefully and permanently packed away cascading back into my conscious mind.
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