Sunday, September 06, 2009


For so many years, I have had a picture of me at 20 catching a movie, grabbing a late night dinner, on a picnic, even. With you.

No, I have not pictured what you look like when I was 15. No. It was a vague image. Too blurry enough for me to make out your eyes, nose, lips, and ears. But your hair, oh your hair, I have pictured and permanently scanned in my mind.

See, the problem with this dream is that it is perfectly planned out. I have momentarily gazed out the car window, spaced out while Oops! I Did It Again played on the radio.

I mapped out the routes and took notes of the good restaurants we would dine in. Laugh and smoke our hearts out. But then I never pictured you as a smoker. Neither myself. But I thought it would be cool if I pictured you and I as smokers. Downing red wine after our home cooked dinner. I burnt the steak. And you, with a sweet smile ate it as if it is the most delicious thing you have ever tasted. When we were stuffed, you say: "Oh, the steak was grilled the perfection." So was our future. We would sit in our green couch and I would make you listen to Cruisin’ because I would then claim that this is our song. We listen to it for more than ten times in a row with no complaint from you. But when your favorite teams are playing for the championships, well, that is a different story.

Today, as I write, I am 21. I have never had that. My mom and I had a good talk about guys. I can never show one. Maybe tomorrow.

So, here I am listening to Interpol’s Heinrich Maneuver for the 97th time. I am throwing away my maps and dreams and pictures of you in my mind. Maybe tomorrow.