There was a guy I did a lot of stuff with when I was in my late teens. Smoked pot with, rode on motorbikes with, and lost my virginity with. He was my first real love, we did some wild stuff together, and when it ended, I was heart-broken.
It ended because he was also riding bikes with Suzie, Sarah and Sally, smoking pot with Daisy, Debra and Delilah, and helping Ally, Sally and Cally lose their virginity too.
We tried to be friends, and for a while we were. Then he moved from pot to cocaine, from Debra to David and from Johannesburg to San Francisco.
I’d kind of hoped he would come home and ditch David for me, but he ditched David for Jane, Josie and Jemima, replaced cocaine with heroine and changed his scooter for a Harley.
I got married. He sent me a note that said ‘Thanks for the invite’, and while I settled down in the suburbs, he led a life of free love, debauchery and depravity.
I thought of him from time to time, usually with a small pain in my heart - first love and all that - but I had dogs to feed, lunch boxes to make and anyway, who wants a man who is a drug addict, womanizer and heart-breaker.
Me, I guess.
Because I bumped into him the other day, while walking under scaffolding and sexting my new flame, and he yelled..."Look the fuck where you’re going you idiot, fucking arsehole, oh my god, Violet, it’s you, oh sweet Jesus, Violet..."
I suddenly turned seventeen again.
And so did he.
The world caught alight. Everything went mad.
Because we both got that feeling.
That feeling. You all know that feeling.
I dropped my phone. I leaned back against the scaffolding. He leaned into me.
He looked exactly as he had twenty years ago.
He sounded exactly as he had twenty years ago.
He tasted exactly as he had tasted twenty years ago.
Twenty years ago.
Do we ever get over old flames?
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