It was a friend from college, whom I hadn’t seen for a few years, that I saw that day. He was one of my people. I adored him, in a not at all romantic way; but in a very significant way. He was, and I have no doubt continues to be, a truly uncommon individual.
So I was there, doing whatever, and I saw him come in. We condensed the time that had passed into a 10 or so minute conversation. He told me about living and/or working in Holland (Michigan) and studying culinary arts. I told him about this new man in my life (who is now my husband). Hence the datestamp. We exchanged numbers.
What’s not weird is that I never called him. For one, I truly dislike talking on the phone. I also, no matter any great affection, am terrible about keeping in touch. Time passes. More passes. Nothing happens. (Except now, in the equally dubious and wonderful world of facebook, that is.)
What is weird is that I carried his number with me for at least 16 years. It was on a small piece of a ripped envelope (the only paper I had in my purse), folded unevenly with just his first name and six digits on it. I can conjure the image of it right now. Year after year, I moved it from wallet to wallet, in some sort of strange ritual. At no point was I prompted to pick up the phone, though. I just tucked it away in-between the library cards, equally-aged emergency band-aids, and postage stamps.
Even after I knew that it was incredibly unlikely that this number could still be his, I still held onto it. It wasn’t until I reconnected with one of our mutual friends and learned that he was halfway across the country that I finally discarded it. Kinda wish I still had it, actually.
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| Hey, Anthony! |
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