Momentary Soulmates

I should have gotten his name that day, by the creek bed.

Birds had been whistling in the trees above and I felt alive, alive, alive. The grass was an alarming shade of chartreuse and the water below me matched the sky. Early summer had that effect on me—somehow it transformed the grey world into one choking with brilliant color. Between the songbirds and the few insects zipping around, I felt alone. Blissfully alone, engrossed in the words of Henry David Thoreau.

Only, I hadn’t been completely alone. A tangle of blonde curls had appeared over the top of my paperback, and I was met by a lopsided smile and a remark on my choice of book.

“Thoreau? Once I got past the economy chapters, Walden was great.”

I don’t remember how I responded but it had gotten a giggle out of him. A high pitched, breathy giggle. One that felt as alive as the summer day around us. He was my age, maybe a little older (ages are hard to tell), and we had talked and laughed and talked more. It never occurred to me that I would miss his company when he was gone. That I would turn our too-brief conversation over in my mind thinking “what if, what if, what if?”.

He had stopped me as I was leaving. “What’s your name?”

“Renee.”

I didn’t offer my last name. He didn’t ask it. I left him with a smile and wave and little else.

I should have gotten his name.