Pretty Lynne Writes

When I was 18, I fell in love with an older man. He didn’t know I felt that way. If anything, he might have been aware of me being a little giggly around him. I was an exchange student and he was a young teacher (yes, it’s the whole cliche package).

We worked together on some drama projects, and spent long hours at the school. He got married; I had a sweet boyfriend who needed more practice to get good at kissing. 

Nothing happened between us. At all. There was just an energy about him that I really liked. The night of my going-home party, we hugged on the street for a long moment, and he kissed my cheek, and then he got in his car and drove away. I let myself think about how I felt for him, and then went back inside and got drunk with my friends. 

I went home. He called me on the phone a week later to see how I was adjusting. And then he called me on my birthday for the next couple of years. The conversations were short and a little awkward. 

I have a vague recollection of letters, but then the correspondence kind of fizzled out. 

For some odd reason, in my late 30s, I wanted to find him. I’d been writing this bad poetry about how I loved him. I don’t know where it was coming from, but it was bubbling up in me, and I needed to do something with it. 

The internet had become accessible to me, so I searched his name. Lo and behold, there was a poet with his name and an email address, so I sent him the bad poetry. He very kindly told me he hoped I found the real [redacted]. 

Eventually, I did find the actual guy. And for some reason, I sent the bad poems to him. I guess I was committed to the bit at this point.

With sweaty palms, I opened his response. I was a full-fledged grown up with all of the trappings, but I felt the way you did when you got a folded note back from the cute boy in your class. You just hoped you’d open the note and find the YES box checked next to your scrawled “Do you like me?” 

He wrote that my heart must have been in my throat when I pushed send on that email, and thanked me, and then asked about my life. We exchanged a couple of emails about our work and life stuff, and it was done. 

But on my next birthday, there was an email just after midnight wishing me a happy birthday. Every year since then, a message has come wishing me happy birthday. There are a few sentences of updates from each of us and that’s it for another year. 

Last year the update from me was pretty major. I didn’t say things were hard, or even go into much detail. But since then, I’ve had messages every so often. Not exactly asking how I am; usually just sentence fragments about the weather and travel plans. But there. Just letting me know he’s there. Just thinking of me now and again.  

I got one of these messages last night, telling me it had been the longest summer he can remember. 

After all of these years, it felt a little bit like love.