S W E E T

greg r. was my best friend in high school. we had nothing in common except we both loved to read and write poetry. although we never officially dated, we had a hot literary romance that began our freshman year and continued throughout high school. he called me the girl with ocean eyes and i called him by his french name olivier. our favorite book was a poetry anthology given to us by our tag teacher, mrs. varney. the book was entitled Beowulf to Beatles and became a springboard for our countless conversations on the meaning of love and life. we wrote plays during algebra and poetry during physics. we got detention for eating fried chicken in the library and for writing iambic pentameter couplets during chemistry class. i tried to convert him to Jesus and he tried to convert me to Sylvia Plath. we both took french for four years. mrs. varney was also our french teacher. we were merciless to that poor lady. looking back, she was incredibly patient with our antics. for a french project, greg and i did a french version of the b-52s LoveShack. i think we brought out good things in each other. he refused to let me be shallow and i refused to let him wear all black.
once during our senior year, we decided to act on all the passion we had conjured up through our written correspondence. we went “parking” on sheridan road. we held hands and looked at stars and talked about the new school for social research in new york where he wanted to go to college. then we decided to take it to the next level and our lips met. we kissed. it wasn’t very good. he told me my lips were too rigid - i told him his were too wet. we made adjustments and tried again - no - we couldn’t get it right. it wasn’t working for us. we both laughed hysterically. the chemistry we felt during chemistry (and advanced math and french) failed to exist in the physical realm. it was ridiculous in fact. we agreed the anticipation was far greater than the actual event. we both giggled about it -but once i got home, i felt empty and sad....as if i had lost something very valuable,
the next day, i didn’t even want to go to school - i just knew the mystery and fire from our literary romance could no longer survive. i feared the reality on sheridan road had doused those fictitious flames for ever.

i didn’t run into greg until A lunch. he pulled out a thick folded note from his pocket - i almost dreaded to read it....
it was entitled

“Desire for Her Sweet Kiss”
a sonnet to the girl with ocean eyes.....

what a bunch of bolognie!
it was a fabricated tale of lies and deception,
penned with perfect rhythm and meter

and it was completely wonderful!

i still have that steamy poem somewhere as well as everything greg ever wrote me. he taught me the incredible power of the written word
and that reality can be overrated.