I was squinting at the screen, thinking it was a stupid idea. “Yeah, but I actually used to know Grace. I might have said hello if I had more than a second before the train pulled away.”
He swiveled the chair around to face me. “Look, you’re not gonna find her on the subway. The odds are against you. Maybe she wrote one of these?”
“I’ll look. Although, I’m pretty sure if she wanted to find me, she’d have no problem. My name hasn’t changed and I still work at the same place.”
“You never know. Just read them.”
I spent the entire afternoon reading posts like, I saw you in the park, you were wearing a powder blue jacket. We kept stealing glances at each other. If you like me, call me. Or, Where’d you go that night as SaGalls, you were talking about a cherry-drop martini and then you were gone. I thought you liked me. What’s up? And the-oh-so-common, I want to do nasty things to you. I thought you knew that when you were droppin’ it like it’s hot and grinding on my leg at ClubForty. Gimme a buzz.
Grace wasn’t there, and I was relatively sure no one under the age of thirty could be found in the “missed connections” section. And then I read a post called “A Poem for Margaret.”
Once there was a you and me
We were lovers
We were friends
Before life changed
Before we were strangers
Do you still think of me?
—Joe
I couldn’t imagine twenty-year-olds named Joe and Margaret who spoke of the past in that manner. In an eerie way, it conveyed exactly what I felt for Grace and I wondered for a moment if it was her. I called the number and a man answered.
“Hello, is this Joe?” I asked.
“Nope, that’s the third time someone has called today asking that. Joe sure is a popular guy, but he doesn’t live here.”
“Thank you.”
I hung up. Suddenly, the room darkened, with the exception of one set of fluorescent lights over my head and the desk lamp in my cubicle. From the hallway, Scott shouted, “I’ll leave that one on for you, Matt! Get to it.” He knew exactly what I was doing. Maybe Grace would find the post, maybe she wouldn’t. Either way, I had to write it—if for nothing else, my own peace of mind.
To My First Wife, the Green-Eye Lovebird
We met fifteen years ago almost to the day, when I moved my stuff into the dorm room next to yours at Senior House.
You called us fast friends. I like to think it was more.
We lived on nothing but the excitement of finding ourselves through music and photography, lounging in Washington Square, and all the interesting things we did to make money. I learned more about myself that year than any other.
We lost touch in the summer when I went to South America. I came back and you were gone. There was nothing left in your empty dorm room but the old guitar and just a hint of your perfume. What was it? Lilac?
Our RA, the one who looked like David Bowie and smelled like fish sticks, said you went to travel the world. I hope you got to see the world. I hope life has treated you well.
I didn’t see you again until a month ago. It was Wednesday. You were rocking back on your heels, balancing on that thick yellow line that runs along the platform, waiting for the F train. I didn’t know it was you until it was too late, and then you were gone. You said my name, I saw it on your lips. I tried to will the train to stop, just so I could say hello.
After seeing you, all of the youthful feelings and memories came flooding back to me, and now I’ve spent the better part of a month wondering what your life is like. I might be totally out of my mind, but would you like to get a drink with me and catch up on the last decade and a half?
M
(212)-555-3004
Second Movement:
Fifteen Years Ago
4. When I Met You
Matt
It was a Saturday when we met at Senior House. She was reading a magazine in the lounge while I struggled down the hall with my nineteen-year-old wooden desk. It was the one piece of home my mother had shipped from California, other than a single box, my camera equipment, and a duffle bag of clothes.
When she glanced in my direction, I froze awkwardly, hoping she’d look past me as I balanced the desk with little finesse.
No such luck.
Instead, she stared right into my eyes, cocked her head to the side, and squinted. She looked as if she were trying to recall my name. We had never met, I was sure of that. No one could forget a face like hers.
I remained still, transfixed, as I took her in. She had big, incandescent green eyes, alit with energy that demanded attention. Her mouth was moving and I was staring right at her, but I couldn’t hear a word she was saying; all I could think about was how uniquely beautiful she was. The eyebrows that framed her big almond-shaped eyes were darker than her almost white-blonde hair, and her skin looked like it would taste sweet on the tongue.
Oh my god, I’m thinking about what this girl’s skin tastes like?
“Bueller?”
“Huh?” I blinked.
“I asked if I could give you a hand?” She smiled, piteously, and then pointed to the desk I had balanced on my knee.