Missed Connections: Annie to Glen

That night when we were twenty one and you had left Patty and I left Mark and we borrrowed your mom's van and we drove as far as we could go on seven dollars and forty five cents worth of change we cobbled together from various coat pockets, bottoms of purses and couch cushions, and we drove as far as we could til we reached half a tank of gas and ate soft serve ice cream cones with a chocolate dip, wandered ancient general stores, spoke secrets out loud and promised each other the world- that was the night you asked me to marry you and I said yes but really meant but not now because I was young and we were crazy and I was terrified of the reality but in love with the romantic idealism and thought that yes would somehow magically solve our life's problems, which seemed monumental and all consuming and would irrevocably change the rest of our lives. That night, that's the night I play over and over in my head, every day, every minute of every day, since I saw you on the street last Tuesday afternoon at 1:45 pm,  at the south west corner of Bay and Bloor. You were wearing a brown suit with pinstripes and a blue tie with a white shirt. You wore glasses. When did you start wearing glasses? Your hair is greying, not at all what I pictured you to look like. We were supposed to grow old together, change the world together, make a difference, affect great change; you were going to write the next great novel, challenge the status quo, reinvent the wheel. I was going to champion you. We promised each other ourselves, our souls, the sun, the moon, the stars. I saw you last Tuesday, on the south west corner of Bay and Bloor, crossing at the scramble, carving a diagonal line through the hordes of  afternoon shoppers, lunch go-ers, movers and shakers. I haven't stopped thinking of you since.