She looked surprised. “I did?”
“Yes. You’ve always treated me well. You were generous and kind.” He reminisced.
“I was?” She asked.
“Yes. You were good to me.” He said.
The line went silent.
“So?” She asked.
“Come and see me. We will play croquet.” He suggested.
So that’s how it felt like, to reconnect with your old lover. Someone whom you thought you’d love until the day you die, but you didn’t die nor do you still love him.
“We should have married.” He said.
She wanted to say “I’ve given you hints, opportunities, and I would have done anything for you. But you never wanted to marry me. You said that I was the unmarriable kind.”
But she said nothing. It would not be appropriate. It would sounded complaining. She never complained.
She remembered someone else. Someone whom she used to get over him. The German. Someone whom she then, subsequently fell for, unintentionally, and then years later, that someone would still haunt her.
“You were the one you know.” She said casually.
He was indeed the one. Tall, dark, handsome. Ivy League, East Coast, European descent. He fit her M.O.
They travelled, and they laughed. They remained in each other’s lives as good friends. 18 years of life. That’s quite a long time. They even got married one after another, to their respective spouses and had children who are of the same age.
“Send me a photo of the truck.” She asked.
He never did. It was among his prized possessions. It held her heart, her heart that once, belonged to him.
“You were the only one who sent me flowers on my birthday.” She said.
“I remember opening up a package, flowers, yellow roses, a dozen of them. Beautifully preserved. I never received roses before or after.” She said.
“You were very generous, and kind to me.” He was being sentimental and he repeated the same comment he made earlier. His voice sounded funny on the phone.
She felt a tuck. It was not there before.
She knew what he meant. She has only been this way with three men in her life. He was the second.
She was otherwise confident, carefree and never went out her way to please anyone. In another word, she was herself but with these three men.
She cried for three different men in her youth. One Swedish, one Italian, and one German. Those days were over. But her entanglement with these three types of men continued.
“So that’s how it feels, to get older, to look back, and see what could have worked, and not look forward, and anticipate whom you would meet down the road.” She commented.
“Yes, I suppose. We make choices and mistakes. Not marrying you, was my mistake.” He said.
The other day she woke up and she saw in the mirror, one single gray hair. It reminded her that she need to make an appointment with her hair dresser. Aging, was really never avoidable. Regrets, were made when you were least expecting it. We don’t know what we miss, until it’s gone.
She was gone.
“I will let you know if I make it out that way.” She answered.
But she won’t. She won’t let him know. It would be a mistake. She knew what he wanted. She didn’t want that, not when he’s now happily married with children.
“And send me a photo of the truck.” She reminded him.
But she knew he would not.
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