I can’t quite remember our first interaction. In my imagination, we met amidst a crowd. It was at The Pixies Show at the Town and Country club in London in 1988. As Joey Santiago strums his guitar from E to C minor and Black Francis utters the lyrics to “Where is Mind” I’m entranced not only by the music. Sloane’s sharp green eyes and secret smile made me nervous. Scholarly examinations aside, I was typically at one with my nerves.

The reality of our first encounter may be imagined but the relationship that came to be is not.
 
I found tiny notes tucked in my blazer, lunchbox and locker. Soon enough the notes 
turned into texts. Texts into phone calls that always ran long. She taught me to love 
and be loved. Discovering each other through tears, confusion and discomfort. Being 
at her side was intoxicating. I had never felt so ‘out-of-touch’ with reality.

I taught her the few Italian words I could remember. We’d pass the time by repeatedly stumbling over the syllables, cursing at each other. Profanities I’d poorly memorized by overhearing my uncle mutter them to his wife. Her bright smile illuminating his face was infuriating. I pretended not to notice. She taught me to embrace defeat.  She was confused when I told her that sometimes I wished I stayed inside my mother. She taught me to trust that someone could love me.

I felt complete.

Not to say I was ever deprived of care, I would be a liar if I said my parents ever faltered in their compassion. Her gentle touch would awaken me every morning. She’d lean down and kiss my lifeless face. That summer my mother lost her fight. Her tender embrace no longer welcomed me from unconsciousness.
 
She told me to get in the car. I hated surprises. 11-foot high maize stood between the exit and us. We got lost. Her skin was as soft as it looked. I touched her lips to see if she’d pull away. I leaned in eyes wide open, I didn’t trust her not to leave me alone standing there amongst the corn.

67 days ago, we said our goodbyes promising to each other we’d make an effort to incorporate one another in our new lives. The post it notes temporary reminders until we met next. I promise I tried. She taught me the fragility of the human soul; the lack of reciprocation has left me short changed. I can’t quite remember our first interaction but I do remember our last.