Stephen Mejias

“Dated” is a bad word. I’ve never understood what it means to “date.” Does it have something to do with the passing of time?

Michelle was from San Francisco. We once tried to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge together, but only made it half-way before having to stop and turn back around. It would have been nice, I imagine.

Getting to the other side would have been nice, but the cold wind and the sharp mist and the fast, fast traffic—ungoverned traffic, traffic free from lanes or lights or limits—were all too much for us. I remember clearly, now: It was her fault. It was her idea. In my mind, at least—at the time, at least—it was her fault. I miss Michelle.

I think she was the only girl who ever really loved me. Or, perhaps I should say, I think she was the only girl who ever really allowed herself to love me. And I think I was afraid.

Things might be different now. It’s been at least three years since I last heard from her. Maybe four.