Have You Ever?

(I am using the same picture as A Cup of Jo! because it's perfect!)

I follow a blog called A Cup of Jo for its fashion, design and travel tips, and honest and fun discussions on relationships. Girl stuff in general. I visit at least once a week or so. And as is so often the case with many blogs, some of the best action can sometimes be found in the comment section. Love it!

Yesterday, a post titled “Do You Stalk Your Ex Online?” caught my eye because…how could it not??? If I am honest right here and now, the answer to this question is a resounding “Of COURSE I have."

Go ahead and admit it; you have too.

In the old days, stalking was an inconspicuous drive by right before curfew, or a well-timed hang up after (hopefully) hearing his voice on the [GASP] home phone. I'm not talking about the scary kind that should be taken seriously, and which I am not making light of here. But the innocent, love sick sort. Stalking was pretty simple back then. 

Then some smarty pants developers had to ruin it all with the *69 callback function. And a few years later Caller ID. Darn those two telephone functions. They single handedly wiped out our once easy access to a former love bug’s “Hello. Hello. Hello?” [click]. The sound of their voice setting us back weeks. Maybe it was for our own good.

Now we have Google, and the wealth of information, both written and visual, it provides. Depending on how you look at it, it makes stalking both better and worse. Certainly more thorough. If one had the time and energy, some tech savvy to know how to properly dig, I bet you could find out more than you ever expected and maybe wanted. Am I right?

So that brings me to today.

After reading the post and more than a few of the comments, I decided for whom I wanted to stalk. I am not going to tell, but suffice it to say, I had a huge crush on this guy many, Many, MANY years ago. Thirty-one to be exact, and well before I met the man of my dreams. It lasted for quite some time too. We made out an obscene amount of times, but that's all. Wrote about him just once. (Go ahead. I’ll wait.)

Googling him procured most of what I already assumed. He’s still married to the (ugh!) girl he met when we were hanging out and good friends, lives in the same suburb in which he’s always lived, and has the same job. Oh, and a land line, and a Linkedin account (don't worry, I signed out of mine so he doesn't know). With a PICTURE!!! 

I didn’t recognize him. 

I read through his profile. It was him. I searched his face over and over and over looking for anything familar; a glimmer of the guy I remembered. 

I don’t like this stalking business. Not at all. It’s a memory spoiler.

Trifecta: The Moments When Time Stops

The minute hand tick-tocked at a snail’s pace. She was early. And nervous.

To resist checking the car clock for the third time since 11:57am, she paced the sidewalk, twirled her keys, practiced yoga breathing, and struck up a conversation with a store proprietor then a stranger.

“How long do I wait?” she thought. The slightest bit of panic creeping in as she checked her lipstick in the side mirror. Again.

He was hardly late, just five minutes, but minutes feel like hours when you’re anticipating someone. And nervous.

When he finally turned the corner and she recognized his smile, the air rushed completely out of her lungs. An involuntary response. As each step brought him into sharper focus, she realized she was holding her breath. And more nervous.

He looked handsome though not exactly as her mind’s picture. And sweet. And nervous too.

“Can we hug?” she blurted out surprising even herself.

“Of course,” he said, his deep voice registering with her ears for the first time.

She draped her long arms loosely, at first, around his muscled shoulders. His strong hands crisscrossed firmly around her waist. They remained motionless (on the outside) for a very long time.

Collar to hip bones. Body heat co-mingling through their clothes.

Chests rising and falling in rhythm. Breathing in the essence of each other.

It was the kind of hug that made her forget, for a split second, they were “just friends” and in a public place and she needed to “appear” calm. 

And they stayed like that a little too long.

But there was no awkwardness.

And the touching seemed natural.

She felt his warm breath next to her ear whisper, “Let’s go do something fun.”

And she thought to herself, “As if there is something more fun than this.” 

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This week, Trifecta’s one-word prompt (third definition) is:

APPEAR

1a : to be or come in sight <the sun appears on the horizon>

  b : to show up <appears promptly at eight each day>

2: to come formally before an authoritative body <must appear in court today>

3: to have an outward aspect : seem <appears happy enough>

Trifecta: Bobby and Tony

There are moments when a memory is triggered for me (usually by a person) and my heart does this little thing.

Standing in the Immigrations line late last night waiting for that familiar sound to bounce off our passports signaling, “You’re home”, everyone was weary, suntanned or burned and definitely impatient.

“I want my bed.” I said out loud to no one in particular.

“Vacation’s over. Now get me out of here,” said everyone’s face.

And knowing the external temperature and the prospect of shoveling wasn’t helping the mood either.

Snapping out of it, I saw someone from four rows ahead looking at me. Gazing down then back up again, I smiled in recognition and tentatively waved. He gave a small wave back.

And my heart squeezed.

Had he been on my plane? This whole time?

I hadn’t seen him since the summer between my sophomore and junior years in college. I don’t even remember where it was or what was said.

I dated his brother for a while in high school. He was my best “guy friend” at the time. They were identical twins. I could tell them apart. Always.

His brother was sometimes a jerk. He was always sweet.

When his brother was busy, he’d ask me to the beach or the mall or a movie. We would hang out for hours.

We were only friends.

Never getting close enough to speak last night as the Immigration line snaked around, hundreds of people answered questions like, “How many days were you in Mexico? Can I see your customs form? Bring in any plants?”

I don’t even know if I’d introduce him given the opportunity. Or what I’d say. Where I’d begin. If anyone would care but the two of us.

I was simply happy my path crossed with his one last (?) time.

Riding up the escalator, he looked back to customs. Where I was.

I raised my hand a little.

And my heart did its thing.

Again.

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This was written for Trifecta using the third definition of the word:

PATH

1: a trodden way

2: a track specially constructed for a particular use

3a : course, route

  b : a way of life, conduct, or thought