Tuesday, January 24, 2006

"You didn't happen to see a maniacal teenager out here, did you?"

Wednesday, December 21, 2005, 7:01PM

"What's a saltbox," Tim asks.

"It's a kind of house. A colonial. Why?"

"My mother said, 'Do you think the two of you are going to buy a four-bedroom saltbox with a picket fence?' "

"The two of who? Me and you?"


"So you and your mom were talking about me?'



"She asked me what our status was, and I told her I didn't know. But I said I was hoping to talk to you."

"I'm hoping to talk to you too," I say.


"How about Christmas Eve?"

"Sure! Come over around 7 or 8, ok hon?"

This might sound corny, but I really like that she called me that. I like that we're talking. For people like Tim and me, that is huge. Normally, both of us would run at the first sign of relationship trouble and never speak to the offending party again.


Saturday, December 24, 2005, 6:00PM
Steve's house

My doorbell rings.

Damn that Holly. I should have known it was way too easy getting rid of her after all that demented behavior. She left me alone for what, a week?

I leap up the stairs two at a time and, at the last moment, I peek out the window to see who is there, even though it's definitely Holly.

It takes a minute for her face to register. It's a familiar face, one I'll never forget. She made me very happy once.

I study her, happy that she doesn't see me; watching her brings happy nostalgia, like finding an old poster from my childhood bedroom.

She's pretty. Prettier than I remember. I like her appearance, her shiny shoes, her comfortable-looking jacket. I'm even impressed with the way she stands at my door, her back straight, her chin up. I am glad to say that I loved her once, and that she loved me.

I open the door and smile warmly. "Hi Steph," I say.