I found a photograph of us today. I was looking through my desk drawer for my bank book and instead I pulled out that picture.

I’m sure you would know the one I’m talking about. It was taken a few months after we started dating. Your arms are wrapped around me and my head is leaning back on your shoulder. We’re smiling and laughing, and your right hand is slowly creeping up my shirt.

Your cousin Jay, who took the picture,  later commented that you really shouldn’t have been doing that. Not at your family picnic. We’d scandalized your aunt enough as it was.

The wind is whipping around us, blowing your long hair into our faces. As soon as the picture was taken, I turned to you and said you should have tied it back, as I had mine.

You smiled and pulled the elastic out of my hair, saying that we were even now.

I smiled up at you, and you down at me, our hair blowing and tangling together, your red and my blond.

Jay took at picture of that too. Looking at each other, our eyes were full of love and desire and I wonder now where I put my copy of it. And then I wonder what you did with yours. I wonder if you still have them. I suddenly need to know. Not only that, I want to hear your voice. It’s been years now, hasn’t it?

Why am I asking? I know exactly how long it’s been. It’s been exactly 3 years and 85 days. Is it pathetic of me to be counting the days, still? Especially because I’m the one who wanted to break up. I wanted to be free to date other people. I wanted...

I’m not sure what I wanted. I certainly didn’t want you to take the ring I’d given you off your finger and press it into my hand, eyes flashing with anger and unshed tears, before you stalked out of my life.

I scrabble now through the junk in my desk until I find my address book. Even though we’re not in contact, Jay writes me occasionally, and so I have your phone number. I dial your number with trembling fingers, feeling like a young teen all over again.

The phone rings and I try to remember to breathe. Finally someone picks up.

“Hello?” It’s a woman. But, no, not you. She sounds younger then I. I feel a bit let down.

I clear my throat before attempting to speak. “Hello,” I say, feeling the panic rising. “Um... hey. Is Lucy there?”

She laughs. No, she doesn’t laugh. She twitters. Nervously. “Oh, Lucy’s out right now. Can I take a message?”

I feel a bit annoyed. And curious. “Oh? Um... I’m an old friend of hers. Who are you?”

She coughs and twitters some more. It’s starting to grate on my nerves. “I’m Anne. Her Significant Other.” She says it like that. With the capitals. You could hear them.

I feel my throat constrict.

“Can I take a message?” she repeats, with another goddamn twitter.

I decide that she sounds like jailbait. Annoying, overly hyper jailbait. “Um... no,” I choke out. “I’ll call her back later.” No I won’t.

Something in her voice tells me she knows this too. Maybe she knows who I am. Maybe she just suspects. She sounds relieved. Jailbait. “Oh, okay. Well, alright then.”

I hang up without saying goodbye.

I take the picture of us and put it back into my desk drawer.

And then I go into my bedroom to cry.

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Yeah, this is mine too...