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We spoke on the phone one night.  At first, I didn’t recognize his voice, and he didn’t recognize mine.  He remembered my voice as a husky, Kathleen Turner voice.  While I’m not a high-squeeky-voiced woman, I’m no barotone, either.  After we had talked for a few minutes, the audiological memories returned.

I was talking to My Boyfriend.  On the phone.  Only, he wasn’t my boyfriend yet (anymore?).  Up until this point, he had been a familiar name on a computer screen.  We decided to meet for lunch one day, to see if we were making all of this up in our heads.  Surely this was just a matter of nostalgia.  In real life, nobody fell in love at age 14 and stayed that way forever, without contact, without reason.  Tony picked a public beach with easy parking for our first meeting.  I was recently separated, raw and unprepared.  I hadn’t eaten for weeks, having been terribly ill for several months leading up to my separation.  Depression, stress and allergies had worked their toll.  I wore a black skirt and a red sweater — work clothes, but that’s all I had.

I had never been to this beach, and I was about to see Tony again for the first time in 20 years.  My foot must have sat like lead on the gas peddle.  Lighten up, leadfoot.  I arrived early, searching the parking lot for his car (he had sent me a picture so that I would know what to look for).  He was not there.  Should I wait in the car?  Should I get out and walk around?  Which looked more obvious, more eager?  Which was the bad idea?

I hemmed and hawed and finally decided to open the car and go for a walk.  At least I was doing something.  I had walked down to the end of the parking lot and turned around, walking back to my car, when I saw him for the first time.  I had made the mistake of wearing 3-inch wedge sandals.  He seemed shorter than I remembered because of my shoes.  He looked a little nervous.

I was nervous.

When we reached each other, we hugged.  I tucked my face into the crook of his neck, and sniffed.  He smelled.  Exactly. As. I. Remembered.  I couldn’t let go.  I over-hugged, turning a greeting into an awkward moment.  It was the tightest, longest greeting hug I have ever given.

Finally, we let go and started to talk, uncomfortably at first.  “Do you want to walk down to the beach?” “How about the picnic tables?” “Can you walk in those shoes?” “haha”

I held his hand, tight.  I didn’t want him to get away again.

We walked over to a picnic table and sat down, side-by-side, knees bumping.  I would look at him and smile, then look away.  He did the same.  We played that dance for a few minutes.  Then I put my hands on his cheeks and kissed him, lightly at first.  Intending to get it out of the way.

Cars came and went from the parking lot.  We stayed, seemingly glued to the bench, to each other.  We talked about this and that.  I don’t remember what.  It didn’t really matter.  He asked about my children.  I asked about his life.  We could have talked all night — we would, another day and another.  But this afternoon, we sat and talked and kissed and hugged.  Everything about him was both new and achingly familiar.

We pressed our foreheads together, eyes open, and sat there staring at one another.  Breathing in.  I could feel a slight indent on his forehead where mine fit perfectly, like I belonged there — two pieces of a puzzle finally fit together.  Suddenly, I remembered.  As kids, we used to do this for an hour or more — sit with our foreheads pressed together just staring into each other’s matching green eyes and smiling, until two eyes started to blend into one.  We called it “the green-eyed cyclops.”