“Remember me for centuries/and just one mistake/ is all it will take/we’ll go down in history/remember me for centuries”
-Fall Out Boy
“When was the last time you were decently kissed? I mean, truly, truly, good and kissed?”
– That Thing You Do
If all I can do at this point is remember, I am going to do it well.
There are things I need to do today. Not “want” to do today. Need to do today. And yet, here I am, digging through boxes to find a Christmas card you gave me in 1998. I still remember how it felt to have you hand it to me. I remember reading it over and over, analyzing each turn of the pen. I remember taping our first movie ticket stub to the side of the envelope. You’re the reason I laugh at Brendan Fraser. And only you know the Dr. Pepper story.
Your vase is the only one I own.
I still have the necklace.
I learned to appreciate the bass line from you. I still don’t like the music of Fred Durst (as if I ever would), and deep down, I know that my emo phase (that isn’t over by a long shot), is firmly rooted in you.
When I’m at my parents’ house, my mom still refers to the tree in the backyard as the one you put me in. I never could climb it without help. And, I’m 34 years old, but you’re the only one I let help me.
In college, I met a boy wearing Vans and asked him what he played. He told me Eucre and I didn’t go out with him.
I smile at car shows.
I know your best friend’s house on Broadway, and I told my daughter he used to live there. Whatever happened to him, by the way?
I smile at exit 202. I know where the candy shop is, but I haven’t been back.
I love the 90’s channels but “Have You Ever” gets skipped every time. It’s yours.
I could find the bench in St. Ignace, with my eyes glued shut.
The memory of you makes my hands go numb and my feet tingle. For the past 21 years. That memory is old enough to be a college senior now. Imagine that…
Purple dresses remain a favorite.
Recasting our lives, you’d be a leading role. It should be a story I write. You always said I could anyway.
And Jana Kramer is right. She is so fucking right. I did get the boy.
Your wife got the man.
Melissa St.Pierre is a writing instructor in Michigan. Her work has been featured on stage at Listen to Your Mother and a forthcoming issue of The Blue Nib. “We’re Just Talking” is a tribute to hindsight and a hope for time travel.