Hope in Questions

The question barely leaves my lips, and I’m regretting giving voice to infantile fantasy. The odds are against it. Life would conspire to halt the very possibility. Great mountains of fate could very well crash down upon such vain hope.

“Excuse me…” comes in broken pace from his narrow mouth. I know that mouth!

“Um, sorry,” I try. His eye take the tour, not in a lecherous way but a fair tour of keen appraisal. My hair will offer no clue, colored and cut to be fashionable. Green and silver eye-shadow dance with heavy eyeliner, obscuring the shape of my eyes, though they still sparkle like a verdant forest canopy. Do they? Pursing and twisting in embarrassment, can my mouth look the same? God knows the body’s changed since fifth grade.

“I’m sorry, do I…” he pauses, eyes returned from lower climbs to consider my eyes once again.

My mind races, "Remember me. Think back to me. See me, that me from then, " until words spill out to finish his question, express a tremulous desire, “Know me.”

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