Us At Midday

I Remember ...

You said you didn't remember when we first met. I agreed with you back then.
I still don't remember.
I do, however, remember an astronomical amount of other stuff.

I remember a wintry day in autumn, the familiar chill crept through my windbreaker.

I wasn't popular, not like you. Sure, people knew about me; but nobody hung out with me.
I fished out a copy of Porter Jared and my sandwich for lunch from my ratty blue rucksack. I picked through the library book carefully, rereading it for the millionth time.
I looked around from my corner, scared that people would think I was weird. I was, but still.

...

"Hey." We were younger then, and you were this neat boy in our royal blue uniform (minus your broken leather school shoes) bending over to read what I read, playful black eyes focusing in. The surprise made me feel like I was being electrocuted, the shock you caused that day. I still don't know what possessed you to do it. To see me.

"Uh, hi?"
"Can I see what you're reading?" You held out your mahogany hand, eyes black and shiny. We were younger then.
I gave you the book, wondering if you were going through tease me. 'Ooo, she's such a nerrrdd.' I was not a she.

But you didn't say that at all. You always kept me on my toes, til this day. Something familiar to the old you that you couldn't change.

"I've never met someone who liked Porter Jared before. I adore it!" You had such a precious smile, another thing you still have today.

So I've decided that that should be our origin story, my earliest memory of you, of us, at midday.