Amiga

“Laura?”

His wavy red hair had thinned and grayed. His face had wrinkled, and his freckles faded. He had put on a little weight, but he still had firm, broad shoulders. I had never seen him in a suit since our high school graduation, but it seemed to fit him well. He stood up and hugged me. I hugged back. No kisses, though. Not even on the cheek. We took our seats across from each other.

“You look great.” He still had that broad grin and dimples.

“Thanks. So do you.”

Our waiter came to our table. “Would you like something to drink?”

Greg grinned. “Do you have Sutter Home white zinfandel?”

I blinked.

The waiter replied, “Of course. Coming right up.”

I smiled. “You remember.”

“Fisherman’s Wharf. Of course, I also remember when we used to sneak into my dad’s liquor cabinet for Ripple. You threw up the first time you had it.”

I chuckled. “No, you did. Remember? You thought your parents were going to kill you.”

He chuckled too. “That’s right. I remember now. They took away my car keys for two weeks.”

“That was when you had that Ford Maverick. The brown one with the black vinyl roof.”

“And you had that little yellow Honda Civic.”

“That got me through the oil crisis. Remember Odd/Even days?”

“I’m amazed by how much you remember, Laura.”

“There’s a lot I’d like to forget.”