Some mornings I wake up contented, fresh from a wispy dream I'll reconstruct throughout the day with a smile. I don't know why I still think about him, more than a year after he went back to Boston and I, nursing a tattered ego in Philadelphia, applied to graduate school on a lark.
I packed up, moved to a crumbling high-rise with a fume-choked view of I-395, and got a master's degree. I long to e-mail him a triumphant "Look what I've done, I'm over you," but it's probably best to wait until that's true.
First day of summer tennis and who is that? At least 6 feet tall, blond, curly hair, gorgeous blue eyes, and a smile to die for -- totally glorious Andy Roddick appeal. It's love-all, and the game hasn't even started yet.
I casually approach. "So, are you going to be a senior?"
"No, a sophomore."
And the score is love-almost 15.
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