Fineskinde Farm

It rang and rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is Liz there?”

“Which Liz?”

“Liz O’Brien.”

“Hold on.”

I squirmed and clenched the phone cord. I wiped perspiration onto my pantlegs.

“Hello?”

I didn’t recognize the voice at all.

“Liz?”

“Yes, who is this?”

I told her.

A pause. “Oh my God. Hi!”

“Hi.”

“How did you get this number?”

“From Jessica. I gave her a message for you at the record store. I waited five years and didn’t hear back so I thought I’d call.” My best smile.

She laughed delightedly.

We spoke. She was in college still, in the south. Worked at a library and volunteered at a battered women’s shelter. She was studying English.

“What do you even look like now?”

“Pretty much the same, I guess. I had the Jennifer Aniston thing for a while, but now I’m back to just the standard. How about you?”

I told her.

“Haha, that doesn’t surprise me at all. I always imagined you turning out that way.”

She sang in a punk band. I was post-punk but willing to compromise. I was willing to do all sorts of things.

I was on point like never before. I don’t think I’ve ever been so charming. Every joke landed, timing tight, every nuance noticed. Pretty soon it was like we were children again.

“Do you remember when I threw up on your lap?”

“What?”

“On the bus. We were at Josh’s bus stop and I just turned and threw up all over you. His mom took me inside and called my mom.”

“I forgot about that!”

“The part I most remember is how you barely flinched. You were like a nurse, completely professional, trying to make sure I was alright. Helping me up.”

“I don’t remember that part!”

I do. I should have known and never did. She loved me all along and I never knew.

“What ever happened to Josh?” I asked.

It was getting dark. An hour had passed, maybe more. She had a boyfriend but I didn’t care. He was a placeholder.

“Usually when you talk to someone from your past, it’s awkward and strained. I can honestly say that you’re the kind of person I would want as a friend. We need to talk again.”

I could not agree more.

“Oh, you know what? Do you like writing letters? I’m an avid letter writer. If you write to me, I will write back.”

“That sounds great,” I gushed. “I’ve always wanted a pen pal.”

“Be warned, though. My handwriting is almost unreadable! What’s your address?”

I told her.