The Reunion

The first part

I don't believe that time heals all wounds. If this were true, I wouldn't have felt it necessary to humiliate myself in front of hundreds of people in order to procure the slightest revenge on a boy, whom while we were in high school, lied, cheated and, most importantly, broke my heart.

My heart eventually healed. However, my desire to make him feel an ounce of the pain I felt all those years ago took control and this is the reason I am where I am instead of where I should be.

Where I am is sitting on a bench outside of The World Trade Center in downtown Baltimore. The temperature has dropped to fifty-nine degrees; I am tired, and staring at my two and a half inch black heels wondering what I was thinking.

My floor length, sleeveless, low back, black beaded Donna Karan dress, which I couldn't afford but only bought in a vain attempt to impress, is ripped from the end of the small, subtle train to the last stitch in the back. I loved this dress. From the moment I put it on I knew that I could never put it back and allow someone with globs of money to purchase it, wear it once, and then throw in the back of their closet, never to be worn again. I have never felt so beautiful, sophisticated and skinny in my entire life. This dress must be appreciated for all its glory.

So I spent the twelve hundred, cleaning out my savings account, and swore to myself that I would wear it to every occasion I had no matter how wildly inappropriate.

Now the dress is barely on. If the rip had carried one millimeter further up my back it would have open up completely, revealing that I was wearing no underwear, which is better than the alternative. If it had been an ordinary night, I would have been caught in very large, white cotton panties, similar to those found blowing in the wind as they dry on the line outside of my grandmother's Highlandtown row home.

But I digress. This was no ordinary evening. Where I should have been was the Grand Ballroom of The Belvedere, one of Baltimore's finest historic hotels. I should have been gliding across the floor with a glass of champagne in one hand, charming the life out of those people who thought I was a geek in high school. I should have been making amusing conversation while people threw their heads back in fits of wild laughter. Should’ve….could’ve….would’ve

Nonetheless, I am sitting on a bench in the freezing cold with a mangled looking black dog that has subtly made his way to my feet. He sits staring at me and I’m not frightened, which is unusual for me when I encounter a city dog.

I would have never guessed when I stepped out of the cab on Chase Street and walked into the lobby of The Belvedere that this evening would have ended as it did.

I wouldn't have guessed it until I saw him. Then I knew there was going to be trouble.

I shake my head from side to side in hopes that if I shake hard enough the memories of tonight will be thrown out and into the murky brown waters of the harbor. Instead the memories swirl about and I realize that I am tired, my feet ache, now my head hurts and I am embarrassed beyond belief.

Today's temperature climbed to 71 degrees, leaving the night air warm and pleasant. It is the type of night in Baltimore that reminds you that spring is coming and the bleak and gray days of winter have almost come to pass.

I always loved this time of year. When I was younger, this type of weather would make my nerves twitch with anxiousness at the same time relaxing my muscles. It was an odd combination of spring fever and serenity.

I used to go to the reservoir after my dance classes. I would sit at the water's edge and dream about what the summer would be like. At sixteen those dreams consisted of wondering if the above-mentioned boy would ask me out or if I would meet some boy from out of town. Mysterious and handsome, he would be instantly drawn to my beauty and we would spend endless hours walking along the beach holding hands.

Okay, so what did I know at sixteen? Nothing. In fact, I have always equated love and romance with the movies, which, my grandmother is quick to point out, is my downfall.

What's wrong with wanting to meet Danny Zuko, build sandcastles on the beach and run playfully through the surf as the sun sets behind us?

At sixteen, "Grease" was my idea of romance. These days my tastes have matured. Now the dream is to meet James Stewart in "The Rear Window". I would be the beautiful and sophisticated Grace Kelly. We would fight endlessly about the future of our relationship, come close to the brink of breaking up only to come together in the end destined to be forever in love, and solve a murder along the way.

That's my kind of romance.

As I sat with my eyes closed, I could almost smell the sweet mixture of grass and the water that permeated my senses all those years ago.

It could be the dog.

At that moment my cell phone rang, bringing me back to reality. It abruptly uprooted me from the pleasant surroundings of my past and dropped me into the present.

At this hour of the night, it could only be one person. As I grabbed the ringing phone, I cringed as I thought of the extra $75 I spent on a handbag that perfectly accented my now defunct dress.

One look at the face of the phone told me "I.D." was calling. "I.D.", otherwise known as Isabelle Dawson, is my beloved older sister. Belle for short. If she were calling at this time of night it could only mean one thing, she wanted to talk about man trouble.

That would imply that my sister is promiscuous. She's not. She's just an active dater.

At 31 years old, she could probably make the Guinness Book of World Records for having chosen the absolute wrong man to get involved with the most frequently.

At 5'8", with legs that last for days and the most wonderful color of chestnut hair, she has no problem attracting men. Unfortunately, she attracts all kinds of men. She is notorious for picking the bad apple of the bunch. She is Eve. She can't seem to stay away from the forbidden fruit.

"Hi. What's wrong?" I asked innocently.

The dog scooted two feet to the right as if to give me some privacy.

"Well, I did it," the voice from the other end of the phone said, "I told Mark that he didn't fit into my five year plan."

"I thought you didn't have a five year plan. Didn't you say to me last week that the thought of creating and maintaining a five year plan was the equivalent to being captured and held prisoner in a Turkish prison," I said.

"That was true until I realized, after watching an episode of 'Sex and the City', that every woman my age must have a five year plan," she said.

"I am not sure if I should comment on your using 'Sex and the City' as a life planning tool. So what's your plan and how come Mark doesn't fit in," I asked, not really sure if I wanted to know the answer.

"Well for starters, I am 31 and he is 24. That means when I am 35, he will only be 28."

"So?" I asked.

"So!" she said with much more enthusiasm that I could muster at this hour, "I want to get married and have babies and he doesn't."

"Not ever?"

"No, just not right now," she said breathlessly.

"Okay. Well, then, dumping Mark made sense," I responded kindly, hoping to assure her that the right decision had been made.

"Well, that's what I thought, but…" she started.

"Don't say it. I don't want to hear the work but leave your lips. For the first time in your fifteen-year dating career you have finally managed to make a reasonable, logical decision," I said much louder than I anticipated, "So I don't want to hear a but!"

"Okay," she said hesitantly, "However," she started. I could almost see the smile come across her face as she maneuvered her way around my demand.

"Mark called me this evening to tell me that I was being unfair. I thought about it and decided that maybe he had a point."

"So?" I asked, definitely sure that I didn't want to hear the rest.

"So," her voice dropped an octave and she began whispering.

"I went over to his apartment…” she said struggling to catch her breath.

"Why are you out of breath?" I asked.

"Because we had break-up sex three times tonight!"

"You are out of breath because you just had sex and you felt this was an appropriate time to call me!" I screamed, sending the dog under the bench.

"NO! We didn't just have sex," she said calmly, "We did it, I got up while he was in the bathroom, got dressed, and ran to my car. I dropped my purse, was afraid I was going to get mugged and finished running to my car with my hands full of lipstick, cell phone, address book and my diaphragm."

"Oh," I said for a lack of anything better to say.

"So why aren't you at home?" she asked, finally concerned about why her baby sister was not at home on a Saturday night as usual.

"It's a long story. Do you want to meet for an early, early breakfast at the BE?" I asked, referencing the ultra-chic Bob Evans.

"Can't. I have a six am yoga class. But I want a full report of your evening tomorrow. I can't imagine a Saturday night story of yours that doesn't include a synopsis of what happened on the last rerun of 'Murder, She Wrote.'

"Smartass. See ya," I said as I hung up the phone.

I got up from the bench, gathered the remnants of my dress, and headed off to Pratt St. to catch a cab. I was going home alone. The story of my life. As I walked to the corner of Pratt and Light Streets to hail a cab I got the feeling I was being followed.

Normally, the city is not a place I would find myself alone late at night but I was and began to feel as if I had made a terrible mistake.

I turned abruptly and saw that my stalker was none other than the black dog whom I met briefly on the bench. I bent down to see if he had an identification tag. He sat obediently at my feet and nudged my leg with his wet snout.

There were no tags and he seemed sweet enough. I decided that he could use some food, a bath, and a warm bed and I would search for his rightful owner in the morning.

So I wasn’t going home alone after all. Wait until I told Belle.