just lunch (2nd draft)

The mid morning sun warms my face as I stand outside against the cool structure.  Watching the city move and listening to its breathing, feeling the life of parallel lines and man made structure, reminds me of my blessings.  One more blessing is on its way.

I recognize him as he pulls his car up to the curb.  Here we go, back to the future in a BMW.  I fumble with the door, realizing if I don't close it quickly a passing vehicle may drive off with it.  Smile, breathe, think.  Dark sunglasses, open sun roof...turn and look, smile.  He holds his hand out toward me as he says hello.   I return the greeting with a half hug, over the console between the seats.  Awkward, but naturally my m.o.  For a moment I forget where I am and he gently reminds me to buckle up.  After all, we need to move from this space, and time.

"I haven't seen your eyes yet," he mentions a few minutes after we leave the curb.  He hasn't seen them since sophomore year, since 1982, since my eyes were 15 years old.  I do as I'm told and remove my sunglasses.  He looks at me, into me.  With my encouragement, he removes his glasses and I see him again.  And then the light turns green.

I watch a confident driver, one arm perched over the top of the wheel and the other drumming on the bottom of the circle, weaving through traffic while fiddling with his i-phone, showing me pictures of last night's concert.  I welcome his descriptions of the passing buildings and how they each fit into his life.  Into his family's life.  Then he offers me his hand again, and I take it, with the wrong hand.  I'm supposed to shake it, not hold it.  What do I know?  I'm just his passenger.

I hug him the first chance I get outside of the car.  He hugs me back.  He's cool as a cucumber.  I, on the other hand, am filled with the anxiety of a new perspective.  He notices and comments about my shaking.  Kind, and kind of embarrassing.  At least he knows how to calm me with a few simple words and a smile.  If only I could have a couple more hours to lighten up, to unglue my tongue from the top of my mouth, to reset my memory with interesting facts to discuss, to search for my wit.

Just as he told me, he wears a black shirt.  He told me many things in the last two months, through email and chat, and I realize this afternoon that I am the half who remembers most of our dialogue.  My priorities are obviously different than his. He left his son's football game to meet me.  He keeps glancing at his watch.  I know he has somewhere else to go soon.  I silently thank God for this small window.  And I smile again.  In fact I can't stop smiling, and I barely speak.  What is wrong with me?  Where are all the questions I wanted to ask him? I feel the warmth again, from the rays touching us through the maze of buildings.  We stand outside the restaurant, waiting for his name to be called so we may begin our lunch.  His idea to meet for lunch.  His turf, his time. 

 We talk about our children, our work, our past, our connections.  He tells the waitress that we are meeting for the first time since high school French class and she picks up his vibe:  "did you tease her back then?"  27 years ago he sat in the seat behind me and today he sits three feet in front of me, continuing to impress.  After settling at our lunch table, my friend looks again.  "I see you in your eyes.  I see you as you were in high school."  His thoughtfulness and compassion overwhelm my sensibility.  Keep smiling. Keep breathing.  Slow down my beating heart.

He pays for my oatmeal and coffee, takes me to meet a friend, and brings me to a favorite furniture gallery. I let him lead.  All the while, I'm soaking in his aura.  The friend whom I haven't seen in three decades is walking next to me, showing me how he lives now.  I learn that he plays guitar, collects black and white photographs, frequents art gallery openings, and appreciates architecture.  He tells me stories of his childrens' births, the progression of his business, his journey.  I hear his commitment and feel his loyalty as he wrestles with the logistics of dropping me off and meeting his family. 

I say thank you every chance I get.  Thank you for letting me in these past weeks.  Thank you for boosting my morale and encouraging me to fly higher.  Thank you for making me laugh out loud and roll on the floor laughing.  Thank you for keeping me interested and interesting me in culture and art and music and writing.  Thank you for turning your Saturday upside down so we could see each other again.  Thank you for accepting me. 

I insist on the last hug.  He graciously obliges.  His car enters the traffic queue.  One wave through the window glass and one last smile.  Oblivious to the swirling movement of nearby pedestrians, I walk into the nearest corner of sunshine, in the direction of his moving car.  The autumn heat and the street noises reach inside my throat and grasp my trembling breath. I lean against the warm brick wall and begin the process of perspective.  When will we meet again?  Will we keep in touch as promised?  Was a few hours enough to reconnect two lifetimes? 

After all, it was just lunch.