Eight Years Later

On New Years Eve I was out with a few girlfriends wooping it up at a local bar.  The drinks were delicious.  The music was danceable.  The crowd was tolerable, which is saying a lot since it was NYE. 

I was the only single one in the group, which is not unusual at my age.  One man at the end of the bar caught the eye of a lady in my party.  He was tall, dark haired, dressed in three piece suit, and had a fabulous mustache.   My friend insisted that I go dance with him in her proxy.

I was eyeing him up and he winked at me.  That’s an invitation to approach, so I walked over. 

“Megan!  Holy shit! I can’t believe this,  I haven’t seen you in, what, like eight years?”

Oh My God.  How awkward.  I thought this man was a stranger.  And he was to me because I had no idea who he was. 

And then I remembered.  I had slept with him. A few times.  Eight years ago. 

I remembered him as a tall, skinny, emo/punk who wore black skinny jeans and studded belts and had a faux hawk before they were called such.  Lucky for me, I also then remembered his name.

While dancing and reminiscing, he told me I looked the exact same.  I decided to let it be a compliment. 

Then he asked me, “Are you breasts as perfect as I remember?”

I was drunk enough to laugh it off and assure him that they were likely even better, but even in that state I knew that that stupid question was going to prevent him from seeing for himself. 

Blah blah blah, the night went on, there was more dancing with my friends and other (true) strangers. I got back to the hotel with my friends  and got these text messages: 

Him: That shit crazy!

Me: No kidding

Him: Send nudez

Him: I forgot what they look like.

Me: Sounds like it will stay that way.  Happy New Year. 

Regrets are useless.  However, you can make sure not to make the same mistakes twice.