Last night, I had a dream in which the last name of a high school boyfriend floated through my head. I'd been trying to remember his name for YEARS, because I wanted to Google-stalk him. But I couldn't remember -- it was Peter ... something? Something Italian? I think it sounded vaguely embarrassing? I'd simply forgotten. Probably because our courtship was the kind of awkward learning process that's best left in the past.
And then, poof, in the middle of sleeping, there it suddenly was. At long last, his last name. It was like leaning against a bookcase and having it suddenly spin around and reveal a secret passageway into my preconscious.
I found him. Here he is.
He's doing fine these days (still in Connecticut, the poor thing), and it's a little hard not to still think of him as a 17-year-old. He has at least one shirtless friend, so he's a good gay. I wonder if he remembers the time that we went to see Titanic on a date and cried.
Oh shit! I just realized, THAT'S why I dreamed his last name last night: the day before, I'd done some DVD-sorting at work at involved the movie Titanic. And while I was doing it, I was reminded of that mortifying, tearful date. And then that somehow unlocked his "last name" vault in my sleepy brain.
Well. Huh. There you are. Should I email him? Errrrrrrr, probably not. And anyway, it's not possible. My email to the 17-year-old boy who liked me for a week would inevitably get misdelivered to a 26-year-old man who's moved on, far far beyond those few fumbling days.
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