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I. Good reunions are like clockwork, but only if clockwork tolls once every two years, and only if it sounds like a friend you made in the third grade. I am grateful that my parents lugged my sister and me all over south east Asia in our childhood: we’ve made plenty of new friends and lost old ones every time we pack a suitcase, but cheap plane tickets have made emotional collateral damages easier to alleviate. We talk as if two minutes, not two years, have passed. Gulf? What gulf?

II. He strolls up to me casually with no indication of excitement in his body language, save for that stupid pervert grin he’s perfected since he was thirteen. He strokes my arm and gives it a squeeze. “How are you?” It’s all formality, of course; he knows I’m doing well. He has an uncanny talent for showing up in my life when my luck is riding the crest of a high. I’m fine. How are you?

“Good, good. Shall we?”

Several blocks and ten minutes of abridged catching up later, he taps a cigarette from a slim box and clamps it between his teeth. I yank the cigarette out of his mouth and feel his jaws slam against each other. Ouch. Probably shouldn’t have pulled it out so hard. “Don’t smoke in front of me,” I harshly remind him, throwing the cigarette into a trash can. “I’m asthmatic.”

He chuckles, nods, and flashes that stupid pervert grin. “Sorry, sorry. Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

III. She comes sprinting towards me with her arms wide open at full speed, all happiness and sunshine. I can’t help but feel she’s too happy. It’s strange seeing someone emanating so much happiness and charm, and knowing that once upon a time she was a nasty piece of work. People change, and I have proof.

“Oh my god! How are you?”

She knows I’m fine. It’s all formality, of course.

“Do you want to go get something to drink?”

Yes, I do. Let’s go.

IV. “I have to go.”

“What? No, stay.”

“I have to go, darling, I’m sorry.”

A sigh. He heaves himself onto his legs, pitching forward ever so slightly. “All right, all right.” A bear hug, a peck on the cheek, another peck. His breath reeks of alcohol and his shirt is dampened with sweat. “I’ll see you soon.”

“All right. It was really good seeing you again.”

I start to leave, but he has a firm grip on my forearm and won’t let go. “When are you coming to England?” He reels me in for another hug.

“When British immigration authorities make it easier for third-world born, American-educated kids to get visas.” I try to pull away. He still won’t let go. “When are you coming to the States?”

A deprecating grin. Hah. Damned haughty Europeans.

“Let go! I’ll see you when I see you.”

He flashes that stupid pervert grin and lets go. “Bye.”

V. “I have to go.”

“Oh, okay. Let me get the bill—mas, minta bon.”

The slim waiter bends over at the waist. “Oh, your friend has taken care of it.”

She whips her neck to gawk at me so quickly, I could have sworn I heard a crack. “What! Why?”

“It’s just coffee,” I wave my hand in her face. “But I’m not letting you off the hook. This means you’ll have to pay for coffee the next time we meet up.”

She laughs uproariously. Her laughter is generous and delicate, like church bells. I remember when it was harsh and demeaning. “So now we definitely have to do this again. All right, I owe you, I owe you. We have to meet up for coffee again.” We pack up our belongings to leave and say our final goodbyes in the concourse.

“It was really nice catching up. I hope we can do it again soon.”

Pssh. She knows we can’t. Not that soon, anyway. We’ll probably be done with school when we are ready to meet up again. But it’s all formality, of course: we both know we’ll see each other again, but time, space, and specifics have never been kind to us. But that’s okay. And we both know it.

A Sunday Mile We Paused
Posted on March 20th, 2008