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Loops

Steven K. Smith

    There’s a place I know off the bike trail near Alexandria, Ohio. You pull off, go down a tractor path around a bean field, through a stand of sycamores and maples to a swimming hole in Raccoon Creek. I left my virginity there on August 17, 1976.
    There wasn’t a bike trail then, just the tractor access from the road. Kids used to go there in the summer, but it was too small a bend in the creek to accommodate very many people. By August, when the water level was down anyway, most people had given up on it.
    I was 19, and shy; Lori was 22, and worldly. That afternoon she’d suggested a swimming date, but when we got there she said that she hadn’t brought a swim suit. Did I mind?
    I mostly hid my surprise when her pubic hair wasn’t trimmed the way the models in Playboy had theirs, and I didn’t really know what to do, except theoretically. I was eager, full of hormones, and her hot slippery wetness was so much different and better than when I masturbated. I peaked too soon and said I was sorry.
    She said it was okay.
    The radio played The Who as we drove back to Newark: Behind Blue Eyes. We got burgers and french fries at McDonald’s on Mt. Vernon Ave. I had a chocolate shake, she had a diet coke, but bought a six of Bud at Morgan’s Carryout afterwards. We drove up to one of the back parking lots in Horn’s Hill park and drank it in the car with Led Zeppelin playing on my eight track to cover the awkward silence.
    School started for me the next month and work started for her. She went to teach third graders in Missouri, and I went to OSU main campus to study engineering. Of course, we knew from our first date this was going to happen. Still, I cried after her car turned onto the main road as she left and there was no longer any chance that she might see me.
    I wrote her a few times. She answered once. Then I met my wife and I stopped sending the letters. The Christmas card we sent her the December following our wedding came back marked, “No forwarding address.”

#

    Twenty years later I went with my wife and son to a parent-teacher conference at his school. Without warning I found myself sitting beside my wife in a chair too small for an adult across from Lori. I saw recognition flash in her eyes as she shook our hands, but she professionally discussed our son’s progress and challenges, and suggested organizational tactics for keeping him on task.
    Afterwards, he took his mom to see the mural the class had painted in the cafeteria for Halloween, but I made an excuse to stay behind.
    “I just wanted to thank you for being kind,” I said. “That time at the creek, it was my first time, you know, and it couldn’t have been very good for you.”
    She smiled at me. A sad smile, but a smile, nonetheless. “I didn’t know, but I’d guessed.” She pulled a folder out of her briefcase and put it face down on the desk in front of her. “We were so young then,” she said. “I think back and can hardly believe that I’m the person that lived though those memories. You were so sweet, so much the gentleman. I hated leaving you, but I knew it would never work out. It’s best this way, a short, sweet affair.”
    “I’m sure you’re right,” I replied. The image behind my eyes was of her car departing, followed by the memory of my wife saying, “I do” in a park surrounded by friends and relatives and cherry blossoms.
    Lori looked back up at me. “It was good to see you again, Barry. You have a fine son.” She glanced at the door, then turned back to me. “I have one more appointment before my son picks me up tonight.”
    I found my wife and son in the cafeteria and admired the mural, holding her hand. After a few minutes we headed back to the parking lot. As we left, a young man approached the building and I did a double-take as we passed. He looked like my high school yearbook photo.
    “Barry! Don’t squeeze my hand so tight!” My wife scolded. “Is something wrong?”
    I turned back to her and relaxed my hand. “No. No, it’s fine.” My ears roared. “Everything’s fine.”

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