It was the end of summer. It was underwater.
Perhaps you don’t remember. It’s okay if you don’t. It sounds so much better than it was. It wasn’t earth shattering, or particularly momentous but it was my first, so I remember. Perhaps in too great a detail.
I am a person of details. I find them to be indulgent but indispensable. For me, memories lie in the specifics that encircle sentiment: evening, birthday sleepover, swimming, early pubescent skiting, neon green bikini, cartoon boxer shorts. Details.
Agitation was the sentiment on this occasion. I remember being nervous. I pretended to be uninterested and rolled my eyes when Truth or Dare was suggested. A desperate attempt to shroud my apprehension in casual bravado. I doubt I succeeded. You stayed quiet.
It is my most profound of hopes that you don’t remember. Not that it was awful, or particularly regrettable. It was what it was: timid, soft, chlorinated, fleeting, a bit rushed actually.
Which brings me to the reason for this letter. I would like a do-over.
Everybody deserves a second chance. I feel that given the opportunity I would deliver a far more refined and memorable performance.
I realise obstacles lay between us; we live in different countries, we haven’t seen each other since the end of high school, you have a girlfriend.. but these are far from insurmountable odds. Pitted against the magic I know we are capable of achieving you would be foolish to hesitate.