The divarication station

Today, I thought about the first time I met you.  A memory that hasn’t been siphoned out of my temporal lobe in years.  If it ever has.

It was 2004.  Or was it 2005?  We had a mutual friend who suggested that technically we had met before.  I liked you instantly.  You were tall and gangly.  (At least that hasn’t changed.)  A bit younger than me, but sweet and mature.  You complained about your bimbo girlfriend.  I asked you for advice about some unrequited crush I was developing.  I remember her name, but not his.  

I remember we went to a mall.  It was dinner time and we ate in the food court.  I don’t know if I ate but I think you had Taco Bell.  I think.

I wanted you to like me.  I secretly cheered for your break-up with the bimbo.  I see fragmented scenes of us driving home.  You were in the backseat and I in the passenger.  Our friend drove us home while I glanced back at you to catch a smile.  It was winter and we blasted the heat.

I don’t know why now.  All of a sudden this memory gushes forth.  It’s probably ‘cause I had another dream about you.  It’s probably ‘cause I still want you to like me.  I want you to never forget me.