Grease, and the beginning of Forever.

January 13th, 2011.

The sky was blue. An anomaly for an Oregon January. It was a balmy fifty degrees Fahrenheit, and you were sixteen. You'd just gotten your license and come to pick me up on our first date. Silly boy, I'd wagged my finger and told you there was no way we were driving-- it was illegal, and boys had a tendency to get tickets when I was in the passenger seat. You took one look at the sky and grinned, and I thought I knew right then-- you were the one.

You were veritably gigantic for a sixteen-year-old boy, and when you offered your hand, I took it, my hand swallowed in yours--and I thought I knew right then--you were the one. We walked together, both of us tall, strides in harmony, hands sweaty and cold and delightfully lost in each other. It was a terribly long walk to the arcade, but we didn't care. We were young and desperate to show off for one another. You let me beat you at air hockey, and you didn't bat an eye at the jibes I dished out in generous heaps afterward. The jock, beaten at a game by the theatre nerd. We each knew the truth, and the both of our eyes sparkled in harmony for it-- I thought I knew right then--you were the one.

But it wasn't then, no. It was an hour later, after we'd stumbled our giddy way into a tiny diner. You pulled out my chair and we played thumb wars over a sickeningly sticky table, and when the basket of french fries arrived, we shared. I know you were starving, but you gave me the larger portion anyway. I have never tasted a better french fry. They were perfect. Salty, soft, crisp, but not overcooked. Perfect. I nearly got lost in them. I nearly forgot you were there at all, for my very first love had me then in its grasp: food. But then you surprised me. You stole the last fry from my greasy fingers, and I looked in shock and sadness on the emptiness greeting my greedy tongue. "Did you forget I was here?" you teased me.

And I got worried...because... how could I have ever thought that I could be myself in the presence of a boy like you. You were a football player. I was chairman of the anti-bullying club. It was never gonna happen and I'd just made a terrible fool of myself over the last few hours. These things galloped about my head in the quick ten seconds it took to truly look at you, sitting there, the last fry held between thumb and pointer finger, ketchup bottle in the other hand. You slowly rotated the fry to face me, a garish grin painting your face in the process. "This is how I feel about you," you said, rather matter of factly, and handed me the fry. There, in bright red ketchup, you'd drawn a smiley face on the top. And I knew, then, that you were the one.

You ordered me another basket, and we drew ketchup faces until the waitress started walking by and sighing. So you paid and we left with a greasy sandwich bag of french fries and the certainty in our hearts that we were at the beginning of forever.