We Broke Up at Eighteen. We Met Again at Forty.

I hadn’t thought about Susan in years — not really, not in the way that keeps you up at night.

Then I saw them again, completely by accident, in the produce aisle of a grocery store neither of us usually shopped at.

For a moment neither of us said anything. Twenty-two years compressed into a single, awkward silence.

We talked for two hours in the parking lot that night, catching up on two decades in a language only the two of us remembered.

I don’t know yet what this means for either of us. But I know I’m not willing to let another twenty years pass without finding out.