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sophisticated and does not detract from their good looks. From what I could tell, Matt was a little broader around the shoulders and chest. Probably the stomach too, but he looked rugged, not fat. He was wearing a thick gray Michigan sweatshirt with his Adam’s apple peeking out from the neck like a periscope on a submarine I very much wanted to be on. I wished I’d been with him for all of the smiles that creased his eyes over the years. If I could’ve frozen the moment, and have him return to it with no memory, I would have run my cheek across his entire body like a cat simultaneously enjoying the pet and marking her territory.
    Seeing him again, I remembered that Matt had only one dimple, and when he smiled the right half of his mouth opened wider than the left. When he smiled, his head automatically nodded a touch. As he kissed my cheek at the concession stand, I smelled the familiar mix of beer and ice cream on his breath.
    “So how’s it going, Malone?”
    I love how he keeps calling me “Malone.” I never knew my last name could sound so sexy. Hell, in the reflection of his sunglasses, I actually look pretty sexy.
    “I’m living in New York now, SoHo actually. I’m an accountant.”
    “With?”
    “Deloitte & Touche,” I said trying to sound nonchalant, but secretly feeling like trumpeting I’m king of the world, baby!
    “Excellent,” Matt said, sipping his beer.
    “I’m a partner there,” I said a bit too eagerly.
    “Good for you,” he said like a proud uncle on graduation day. “Never thought you’d be slumming, Malone.”
    Funny how the harder I always tried to impress Matt, the less I actually did. He seemed thoroughly and completely underwhelmed with my professional status. This was our game. Competitive apathy. While we dated, I never won a single match, though I really worked at it. Desperately, in fact.
    “How ’bout you? What are you up to?”
Matt said he lived in Los Angeles and wrote, directed and produced independent films that he proudly described as “iconoclastic” and “edgy.” I loved him as a hot jock. As an artist, he got my undying worship. The downside, of course, was that my living in SoHo and working in the financial Mecca of the world didn’t seem quite as exciting as it had thirty seconds ago. The closest thing to iconoclastic going on at my firm was when we anonymously sent a box of shredded paper over to the folks at Arthur Andersen right after the Enron scandal broke.
    “I’m working on a film about the life of Louis Pasteur right now,” he told me. “Sounds boring, but if we get it right, it’ll be pretty dicey stuff. You don’t want to hear about this. Let me shut up,” he smiled. “Tell me more about what’s been going on with you.”
    When Matt looked at me, I couldn’t believe it was just Prudence Malone he was seeing. His gaze was absolutely infiltrating, as if he’d invaded my entire being and knew exactly what I was thinking. But he couldn’t have. Otherwise, he’d never have said that I didn’t want to hear about his film. Or anything that he could possibly say.
    Talk some more , I silently begged him. I didn’t want to be responsible for speaking. All of my breath was suspended in my chest, and I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
    “Well, I’m living in SoHo and I’m a partner at Deloitte & Touche,” I managed. You already said that!
    Matt looked at his four beer cups and told me he’d better get running. “The guys are waiting for their drinks,” he explained. The Matt reunion fantasy and reality couldn’t have been more different. When I used to drift into thoughts of seeing Matt again, I had dozens of witty stories to tell him — all of which led to the conclusion that I am fabulous. I’d effortlessly regale him with snippets from my life. Charmed, he’d surrender and claim he was a fool to ever let me go. He wouldn’t return to his seat after three minutes, explaining that his friends don’t like warm beer. But who