It’s been more than twenty years, and I still think about you sometimes. I can taste your strawberry lip gloss, see your smile, feel your hand.

Not that I have any desire to be with you now. Oh, God, no. But you gave me my first taste of what love could be, and how fragile and fickle such feelings truly are. The cold aloneness I felt never completely left me. Every time a woman looks into my eyes, I remember. I remember because I never want to feel that way again. Useless. Helpless. Weak.

Three kids and one failed marriage later, I imagine you look like an old lady. Your tits probably touch your knees. Still, in your youth you left an impression, and taught me something invaluable that probably can’t be learned any other way. I do hope I never see you again. I’d like to remember you as you were in fifth grade.