Part of a series of 10 shorts aptly titled "Ten Years" which, as the title implies, happens within a 10-year time span (to the past, present, or future).
They stood in the rain for what seemed like ten years, on repeat. He stared at her, wide-eyed, holding a blue and yellow umbrella, almost afraid to blink. She shrieked at god’s blessing and invoked a curse before giving him a hug. Ouch, he said, oh, when she clumsily stepped on his brown loafers. Some things never changed.
The first thing he noticed was her eyes, naked in amusement. She always wore glasses. She now wears her hair short with bangs, slightly damp from the showers. He could tell she was hurrying to find cover when she ran into him the first time. Slightly taller, slimmer than what he imagined. He still felt a lot taller like last time, even now when she’s wearing three-inch heels.
Their meeting seemed coincidental. He was there visiting his dad, she was meeting her friends for lunch. New York City seems to be that place for people. A place to meet, to lose, and to find each other once again.
He shook his head, apologizing for his awkwardness. She laughed refusing to accept his apology and began to walk. They surfaced the usual questions, falling into step, as if picking up from where they left off years ago. She teased him about his clothes, he lightly nudged her on the shoulders. No awkwardness, just playful banter.
Filled with one-liners, their conversation fueled on. From seventeen and fourteen, to twenty-two and eighteen, to thirty-six and thirty-two. He talked about his daughter and the ex-girlfriend that ran on him, she talked about her Master’s degree program for Visual Communication Arts. She laughed when he asked about her hiding behind fruit stands when there was a boy she liked.
She wanted to ask, but of course he’d remember. All these years, she thought, he always remembers.