BEFORE
Not one day had passed that I didn’t think about
him. It was odd, really, considering that I’d last
seen him in middle school, nearly five years
before. And there he was. His appearance was
so unexpected that I almost forgot the spasm
of pain in my back that had made me gasp and
stop walking. Forgot the telltale pearling of cold
sweat on my forehead.
I straightened and removed my hand from the
rough brick where I had propped myself up.
Kevin Spinelli, my childhood crush, stood across
the street from me, a patient set to his lips as he
gazed up at the stoplight, as though he had all
the time in the world. I stared at him, wishing that
time would stop, wishing that I had all the time in
the world.
His hair was still as black, still swooping over
his left eye in a stubborn cowlick descent that
was both mischievous and endearing. He was
taller, my height now. No longer was he the slight
thirteen year old with his slender neck poking
from the plastic-lined shoulders of his football
uniform like a twig on a sand dune. I was taller
January 2014 | 103