11

I flew out of JFK to meet with Schreiber.  Two hours into the flight I noticed that diagonally across the aisle from me was my first girlfriend, my puppy love, Carmen Degiacomo.  I hadn’t seen her in twenty-five years.  She was the first girl I ever held hands with.  We shared our first kiss together.  I rode my bike over to her house every day after school and we’d watch R-rated movies on HBO when her parents weren’t home.  I’d flush every time a naked breast was shown on-screen.  At fifteen, I was too immature and stupid to make a move on her.  One day I rode over her house and there was another guy there, a couple of years older, already driving.  He had a goatee and a tattoo.  My time was up.

She stared out the window the entire flight.  At one point she sobbed quietly and left a streak of tears against the glass.  She had barely aged.  She’d put on some weight but not much, and her raven-black hair remained just as dark.  If it was a dye job it was a good one.  I still saw the young girl she’d been, holding my hand and giggling at Cheech & Chong flicks.  I’d written a lot of stories about her.  I knew she’d gotten married to the guy with the tattoo.  I knew they had two children.  I knew she lived out in California now.  I’d heard that her husband made good money.  I’d heard she was very happy.  I knew she was lucky not to have settled for me.  I just didn’t know if she was real.