His e-mail read: “Here for one night. Giants game tomorrow. Buy you a drink?”
I was so stunned, I lost my breath. I hadn’t seen him in 25 years. I thought I had gotten over the need to get over my first love. But 11 words on a screen and I was a nervous 14-year-old again.
I’d fallen for the burly, curly haired anti-romantic who nicknamed me his “old sea hag” in ninth grade. He was the first to take me to a Dylan concert, to bed, to say “I love you.” Then, in my senior year of college, he knocked me up and deserted me for my roommate.
A decade ago, needing closure, I begged him for a long overdue showdown. He said, “I’d rather take out my own appendix with a bottle of Jack and a dull spoon.” I longed to show him I had turned out smart, attractive and blissfully wed. I pictured him apologizing for the hurtful way he left me.
Now that he was here, I panicked. I had recently turned 50, torn two ligaments in my back, was out of shape. I felt too weak to face my ex. Did he really want to buy me a drink? He didn’t even know I hadn’t smoked or drank in 10 years.
“When?” I e-mailed. “Phone me.”
Brushing my hair, I spied gray roots. My nervous energy coalesced into one inane conundrum: If I used my last Clairol Nice ’n Easy Root Touch-Up and dolled up, he would cancel. There should be a moratorium on how much misery your first love inflicts. After 25 years, heartache disappears.
“If you can’t, no sweat,” he added.
I was already sweating. Going out would require walking, preferably in heels — bad for my damaged spine. If he came over, I wouldn’t risk reinjury and could show off my apartment.
“Stop by at 4,” I e-mailed casually, as if I hadn’t been wanting this tête-à-tête since 1985.
No response. He had chickened out. To recover, I didn’t shower. I wasn’t ruining my day for an ex who would probably bail. I felt rejected all over again.
At 3:15, he e-mailed, “Walking over.”
by Susan Shapiro, NY Times | Read more:
Illustration: Brian Rea
