Oh You

When I look back on my notes I feel like a fool. The things young men say about love. The things you think you're feeling. You've done and seen and felt so little.

I thought it was funny, so I called her up. "You'll never guess what I found," I said.

"What?"

"An old notebook of mine from, God, must be six or seven years ago. And I just go on and on about how much I love you."

There isn't laughter on the other end, there isn't a gasp. Not even an, "Oh you!" There is only silence. "Why would you tell me this?"

"What do you mean?" I ask her.

"I'm about to get married. I'm fine," she said, "I'm... happy."

I wasn't sure what to say. I thought it was going to be all in good fun. I thought there had been enough years to take everything real away, all the pain, all the missed opportunities. I thought all that was left was a few laughs. Kid stuff.

She hung up. I turned the page. I saw her name written over and over, page after page, in every kind of handwriting. Mrs. This, Mrs. That. And it felt good to feel that again, even if I was lying about how much I felt. Even if I was scared that, even after all these years, it wasn't too late.