In the Rearview

There is absolutely nothing like coming home after who-remembers-how-long and just walking down the street and knowing exactly where you’re going.

We’ve planned to meet at this old café from back when we’d hang out after shows with Patrick, Andy, Pete, and Joe.

It doesn’t belong to either of us; it wasn’t among the places or things we divided after we split.

Neutral territory.

Not like that one hoodie that fit the both of us so well that we couldn’t even tell who it originally belonged to.

I fiddle with my audio recorder while I wait for him to arrive. I don’t order anything and just people watch while I try not to pick apart the past.

It’s been four years.

I tick off the years on my fingers, to prevent my hands from shaking like I know they want to.

Scratch that.

Five. Five years ago. Add another finger.

When I saw him last, I mean. I think.

Not including in magazines, or interviews, or the sound of his voice playing on someone’s ipod.

Not that it matters.

It doesn’t.

It shouldn’t.

When he finally walks through those doors, I don’t know what to think.

“Elle?” his voice says as he approaches the table, and I feel my throat drying up, my muscles tightening, my mouth twitching as I decide whether I should smile or not.

I look up to meet his eyes, warm and brown as ever.
I stand and realize he’s taller, which I didn’t think was possible, considering how tall he already was. And just as skinny as I remember.

“Hi,” I manage to reply smoothly, offering a hand. He grasps it snugly with long, steady fingers.

In these first ten seconds it takes me to assess the situation, I know that although he basically appears the same as the last time I saw him, his body language tells me he’s not the same person I used to know.

“It’s been awhile, but you look the same,” he states, reading my thoughts and flashing a crookedly uncertain half-smile at me at the same time.

“I know,” I reply. A flash of hesitance crosses his face, as if he’s only just realizing how awkward the situation actually is. “Let’s sit,” I say, taking my own seat as he settles into the one across from me.

I don’t turn on the recorder just yet. I like to get my subjects where I want them first.

But with the recorder on but still not recording, and given that he’s one of the few subjects I’ve been personally close to, I’m at a loss on what’s appropriate small talk in this context.

“How’ve you been?” I ask, trying to be casual.

“Pretty good.” He leans back into the chair, crossing a leg over his knee. “But how are you?” he asks, offering a smile. I still can’t decide whether to smile back or not. “Living your dream, it sounds like,” he adds, before I have a chance to reply. His eyes glint with something I can’t place as he meets my gaze.

I don’t remember him being this eloquent, this collected. Or confident.

I’m not sure I like it.

Despite myself, I relax a little.

“I hate your haircut,” I can’t help but inform him. I’m not sure what I expect his reaction to be, so I’m caught off guard when he laughs.

“It’s pretty much the same as it was when I met you,” he remarks.

“Yeah, well, I hated it back then, too,” I point out.

He laughs again, this light-hearted sound with no bad vibes at all, and my lips twitch upward, wanting to join in.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he states.

I open my mouth to disagree, but I don’t know what to say or if he’s even wrong about it, so I close my mouth again. I slip on some headphones and look down at the recorder.

“Checking the sound levels,” I half-mutter, even though he hasn’t asked. “Say something.”

“Umm…” he begins, hesitant. “I didn’t think I’d see you- well, not like this anyway. Weird, isn’t it?” he begins to ramble. “Hey, have you talked to Pete latel-”

“Great,” I interrupt, yanking the headphones off again. “Sound levels are good,” I add, not answering his question. I flip open my small notebook and glance at my notes for a while, trying to decide where to begin. I feel him staring at me and it’s distracting.

“So…” he begins, when I don’t say anything.

“The interview. Right,” I say, wanting to hit myself for being so flustered all of a sudden.

I’m ready.

I’m professional.

It’s all ancient history, after all.

Whatever history we had together doesn’t matter anymore.

It shouldn’t.

I hit the ‘record’ button.

Hey William, remember how we met?

Me too.