I feel terrible because I can’t remember your last name. I’m a romantic—I bet you wouldn’t have guessed—and I remember writing your name in my diary right after I met you. Your last name was really important because you have the 28th most common girl’s name of the 1980s and there were three other girls in our social circle with your name. We all met under such crazy circumstances that I had to write about you all, which is why it’s crazy that I don’t remember something so simple.
It turns out that you were the last innocent crush I ever had. It’s not like my thoughts about you were all that innocent (sorry, but I’m not sorry: you’re really gorgeous), but I wasn’t in the business of guarding myself yet so I was pure excitement. I lit up like a Lite Brite every time we talked or you chose to sit with me when the group met up. Thinking back on it now, I’m sure you knew how I felt and I think you were pretty amused by me.
Do you remember that day I ran into you in that bookstore in Santa Monica? I walked into a table because I was so nervous and excited when I saw you. You laughed, but it wasn’t mean-spirited and then you stopped to talk with me for a bit. It totally made my day. I remember driving home elated because we’d spoken and you should feel really good about that; you are (a) awesome enough to make a girl’s day just by saying ‘hey’ and (b) the kind of woman who takes a minute to indulge (but not overtly encourage) a younger admirer instead of blocking her out.
I haven’t seen you since then, which is exactly as the universe intended it to be. You exist in my life story only as the beautiful girl covered in undulating patterns of perfect tawny freckles that I never got to kiss. I know that you appear in a million life stories as a million different characters; we all do. Usually we never learn who we are for people, so I hope this is one account of your existence that makes you smile.
With sincere affection,
Your adorably obvious admirer