She was unseemly and alluring. Unattractive and the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. We were filled with deep words but nothing meaningful was ever said.

I lacked the means to articulate my thoughts with her. I was attracted lustfully to blonde hair, giggles. and big jiggles. Or petite and slightly stupid, brown hair with perky wiggles. Either way she was neither of them. We connected subconsciously . Never touched lips, or even chanced closeness. We were friends that were contently confused. I was twenty two, she was seventeen. I was terrified of our ages. The legalities and consequences. I knew always that she was so high over me, I constantly wondered why she spent a moment with me at all. But, I knew it was because she was too young to know yet. Which made me feel like a creep, exploiting her for my own comfort. And I knew that despite her age and adolescence, she knew anyway. Because she was also brilliant.

We met at a job in an ice cream shop. She was sixteen and already trusted to audit the cash registers, a job usually reserved for management. So right away I knew she was smart.  The other girls, the same age, were more concerned with themselves, and really non-important things, and generally often without a single thought.

I remember a pressurized whipped cream battle that occurred one evening, where there were no concerns at all. I was just an average boy spraying whipped cream on four pretty young girls. At one point, I was hiding in the walk-in freezer with a very bountiful pre-woman, having a private whipped cream battle. It was wonderful. Chell was more tactful and planning. We had our spray war as well, but it just wasn’t as memorable as the blonde in the walk-in.

I’d never been around a smart girl. Ever. I didn’t even know  if I was smart. She had good raisers. I saw a framed photograph of a beautiful blonde girl on an accent table in the foyer of her parents house. She said it was her older sister who was away, modeling in Paris. I instantly knew, I would not fit there on that tabletop. But I purged and advanced. She loudly told her mother who was behind the walls of the moderate house, “I’m going out, I’ll be back later.” Her mother answered something benign and we drove away. I thought, what trust they have in her.

Her best memory of me, I assume, is a car ride in the foothills. I pull from what I perceive as her perspective.

Like James Dean in a Dairy Queen. He’s elusive and cool. He drives a unique sports car and knows all the best scenes. He treats her like a lady when her hair gets sucked out of the rattling, unsecured, passenger door window, like a gentleman would. He doesn’t talk much. He’s mysterious and intriguing.

And here’s my perspective.

I’m wearing my nicest, dirty pants. I got a shit job with no prospects at all. I love cars and this was the cheapest and coolest car I could get. Just happens to be a fixer upper Porsche knock off. I know scenic drives because I drive around alone a lot. I’m acting like a gentleman because you deserve more than I could ever give you. I don’t talk because I don’t know anything at all. No mystery, I’m an idiot.

To this day, I don’t know her. I never knew her. I spent hours with her and never got to know anything. We were just “with” each other and that was enough. I never pined for her, or tried to look her up. I am absolutely more in love with the time we had than I could have ever had in actual love.

Like a film of white dust on a lake. It was never anything attainable, but it was real and it was there. It glimmered in the sunset and faded into time. It’s now a cherished memory, undaunted and unspoiled. We were never touched by reality. As it should be.