He pauses, thinks for a moment, and continues: “You’d think my heart would be callused enough by now; that it had thickened and hardened like a rock. Like there should be a big fucking lump of coal in my chest.”

“Is that really what you think,” she tells him, looking him right in the eye, pushing her plate away, laying her arms on the table, hand over hand, while slowly leaning toward him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Always.” Now he leans toward her, not wanting to miss a word.

“Do you really remember that day? I’m mean really, really remember that day? I don’t believe you.”

“Absolutely, I remember that day,” he responds, tilting his head like a puppy wondering what this is all about, wondering why she wouldn’t believe him, wondering why she doesn’t think the same. “I mean, it’s not the sharpest detail, but I remember the big room with lots of windows at your house. I remember the colors, and looking at your backyard through those windows. And the couch, of course, I remember the couch.”

A smile crosses both of their faces thinking about the days of youth. Those awkward days filled with doubt and passion. It’s strange how those days seemed to go on forever, with little attention given to the importance of time. Brutally unable to know what was really in front of them, what possibilities they could’ve conjured – could’ve manifested.

“I could probably give you more details to prove my mental capacity, to demonstrate my memory about these things, but those things don’t really matter. What shade of brown were the colors, what was the context of the day, what game did we invent to play with each other, really doesn’t…”

“So what matters? What was so big about that day? Why is it still a thing? For fuck’s sake, it’s been 40 years. Time to get over it, dontcha think?”

They both lean back to their normal positions. There’s a tension in the air, and they’re both thinking the same thing as they try to look casually around the restaurant. Albeit roughly said, she’s right, she’s absolutely right; and he needs to now grow a pair of balls and say it. Fucking say it.

“I know. I get it, and that afternoon wasn’t everything, and we have lots of other memories to share, but…” He pauses, strains to think of the right words to say, then says: “It had more to do about my walk home that day.”

“Why? What happened on the walk home?”

“I cried walking home. I wanted to so bad be the focus of your attention, and you seemed more interested in someone else. I was your Second Place. Tough to come out of being Second Place, I guess. Especially at that age, I’m thinking unrequited love is a rough concept for a boy.”

“You’ve really got to give your head the night off once in a while,” she tells him. “I don’t remember it that way.”

“I know, you wouldn’t know, and perhaps my childhood perception was wrong, I get that, but everyone struggles with the insecurities of youth, and this just happens to be a big one of mine.”

“I don’t think you had anything to be insecure about.”

“I hear you, Cheryl, I swear I do, I understand, but it was what it was…”

She sighs.

“Look. This is not some wounded bird routine. I’m not trying to lay any trip on you, or make you feel anything by telling you these things. Although, I very much want to get to know you, to know the current version of you. This is not me scheming. I’m not hustling anything here. This is not my 40-year plan to get into your panties.”

—ooOoo—

I wish there was more time. I would love to expand on the above.