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1992

I had never seen him before.

He slowly crested a hill, walking toward me.

It looked like he was rising up out of the earth.

Walking closer.

Beauty.

Smoking.

Looking at me.

Closer now.

Glance becomes a look.

Look becomes a stare.

Contact. Lightning bolt striking me. Thunderclap deafens me.

Images of Richard Dreyfuss sculpting mashed potatoes in my mind.

"This means something. This is important."

He means something. He is important.

Still staring. Getting closer.

Hold it ... hold it ... don't look away.

Don't look away.

Can't bear it. But I want more. More.


8 years of more.


Arms slung around shoulders.

Car packed up and ready to go.

No words. Not that I remember. Small words, murmurs, perhaps. Nothing outstanding.

Quick hug, lips brush against his cheek, his against mine in return.

He gets in the car; it drives away. He glances out the window.

Hairs on the back of my neck, standing up. Eyes welling, but not spilling over.

Glance becomes a look.

Look becomes a stare.

Hold it ... hold it ... don't look away.

Can't bear it. But I want more. More. ===

Car turns the corner.

I may never see him again.

2000

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