Reminsicing
"Do you still love me," he whispered to himself. He was relaxed, leaning back into his chair, reminiscing about her, a slender and stunning senior girl in a white strapless dress of sequence and lace. Goodness she was pretty, he recalled.
Back then, one night, he was a junior boy dressed in a precocious black tuxedo with a cherry-red cummerbund. When he arrived at her house he was invited inside the foyer, and like a gentleman introduced himself to her parents. Shortly after that she had appeared at the top of the staircase. How proud he was to be her escort for the night. She descended the stairs, graceful, like a queen she would never be. "You look beautiful," he remembers whispering to her, as she stepped off the last stair and stood close to him, smiling, looking up into his eyes. There wasn't a place on her dress to pin the corsage he had brought her, so she made a vase with her hands and held the flowers while her mother took pictures, and her younger sister stood nearby, giggling. Outside it was summer; the Midwest air was warm and humid that night. They held hands as they walked toward the car -- his sister's 240Z she had very reluctantly agreed he could use, "just this one night." He held open the passenger door for her and gave her parents a reassuring wave. He was beaming, absolutely beaming.
All night long there was ceremony, dancing, food, token unlawful drinking, and later, after they had parked, the bucket-seat clumsiness of a boy and girl on fire for each other's touch and kiss. It was there that she gave him a wallet-sized print of her graduation photo. On the back she penned, "I will always have love for you."
Twenty five years later, something reminded him of her. Where was she now? He wondered, "Do you really still love me?"