Old boyfriends. They pop up out of nowhere, yet are usually out of reach. We’re happy to find them because we always wondered if they were dead. They send a chill through us when they re-appear. This may be because of the shock at their dissipation or this may be because of nostalgia.

We don’t necessarily want to see them or even exchange more than a few words. They have a place in our past that is untouchable. They will always be that person and not the one of the present. Most times it’s best that way.

They will always be the one who thought we were beautiful and though there wasn’t much more connection than that, we wanted to be around cute guys who thought we were beautiful.

They will always be the dark sultry one who became a writer and the arrogant, scholarly one who became a banker. We haven’t read their books or opened an account but we reflect on how their youth bespoke their life.

There are the old boyfriends whose memories are heavy with the gunk of unforgivable bad behavior. The mean one we gave our power to or the sneaky one who made us grovel like an old blues song from the twenties. They took our stuff but taught us a hard earned lesson. We really don’t ever want to know of them again.

There are old boyfriends who became old husbands. When husbands go away it’s like taking a heavy plastic bag of old clothes, some unwashed, some in disrepair, some not even worn, to the Salvation Army and shoving it in the bin. The bag hits hard under the weight and we hear it thud. Someone else can wash them out, mend them and wear them now we’re done.

Some old boyfriends went away cloaked in a golden sunshine of great good feelings. We never find them again and always ask “I wonder where he is; I wonder what he’s doing?” But we’ll never find out. These are often the ones we wasted. They may have been the keepers but they came along when we couldn’t be bothered.

Most of the old boyfriends were placeholders for the one old boyfriend who slipped from us. His spot could never be filled for very long because he was the one. This old boyfriend gets old and gray and fat and red-faced and still we can only see the boy. Though he turned out to be someone else’s, he really belongs to us. He doesn’t know this and we don’t tell him.

He’s the one who showed up on our doorstep unannounced to take us with him while he played music all night with his friends. We drank and played and sang, completely in thrall. He brought us home in the morning, dropped us off and went away for a month or so.

When he showed up again, we had strong premonitions for days before, complete with visions, of how and when he would arrive. Sure enough, there he was, at the screen door, right on cue. We had to learn what our portion of him was.

It was time to leave and move forward. Maybe it would be all right; maybe time would cushion us. But as soon as the step was taken the frequency altered and we were no longer someone’s bittersweet old country song.

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