The starchy white linen cloths covering the tables are fighting an inconsistent breeze that is annoying the street. Tall bland canyons of office blocks seem to be positioned in such a way that it’s always windy here. Hence the name, I guess. Still, it’s bright and warm enough for this time of year, and the scurries of brown leaves chasing the traffic offer me something to look at as I wait.

I nurse my beer and make it last. I’ve got to watch myself these days at lunchtimes. Alcohol and I have always been buddies, but only on each other’s terms. My agreement is to drink some of it and stop, especially this early in the day. Alcohol’s deal is not to pursue it when I’ve decided to stop. In general, it works on both sides. Anyway, I want to savor every moment while I’m with her at last.

She’s dashing across the road, avoiding the lanes of traffic, impatient as they are. She looks both ways, even though it’s all moving in one direction. It’s a one-way street, the thought of which makes me laugh a little to myself, for the irony of our meeting after all this time. . .

Up to now, I’ve been the driver—the pursuer—of our relationship. The withering happened over the years, despite my occasional effort to rekindle ‘us’ from a distance. She was resolute to let it die and, whatever her motives, she did a great job of it, bearing in mind how long it’s been since I last saw her.

She skips up the steps, and the maître d’ points her over to me. I make a nervous wave that is neither gushing nor simple. She hasn’t changed much at all over the years with that memorable smile. The one I knew and coveted back then, and still do.

When she was young and so was I.

“Rebecca,” I splutter as if I’m meeting someone I’ve hardly ever met before. I’m nervous despite the beer I had and even though we knew each other so well then. I’m starting out like a first-date beginner. That said, a beginner would be more formal; more restrained, whereas I’m just a melted puddle.

“Michael.” We hug. Just enough for the moment.

“Yes,” she says, “it’s been a long time.” She looks me up and down almost imperceptibly. As those do who haven’t seen each other in a while. Sizing each other up. Taking them in.

“Sit. Sit,” I splutter, as the server pulls her chair out and asks her what she wants to drink.

“White wine spritzer.” She looks at him and—young man as he is—he blushes just a little at her attention. She is a beautiful woman and her gentle, appreciative look goes a long way to make him feel at ease.

He looks across at me. “No. No. Nothing else for me. Thank you.” I want to take everything in now, for the memory of meeting her again will last me forever.

He sets off on his mission to get our drinks and it’s just then it happens for the first time. The thing that sucked me in and spat me out in the past. The one thing that I remember the most and that I have only very rarely experienced ever in my lifetime.

She looks at me. She looks right at me. Into my very soul.

In my work, I understand the vital importance of eye contact. I preach it to my pupils. That you must make the space for eye contact and pay full attention to the people in your care. Those you want the most from.

But she is different. She is very different. For my downfall always was her eyes and what she did with them. As she is doing so innocently right now. Right here in this draughty restaurant in downtown Chicago on this late Summer lunchtime.

“How have you been?” she asks, “How long has it been?”

I pause for a moment, because I know exactly how long it has been. I know exactly where it was and, almost to the minute, since we last met, on a wet and wild street on a dark January evening, a continent away.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I lie, “Twenty, twenty-two years?” I make it a question so that I appear to be nonchalant about it. But I know—and she knows I know—exactly how long it’s been.

Her drink arrives, and she leans over with her glass.

“Cheers. A long time, anyway.”

She taps my glass as I raise what’s left of my beer and look right back at her. Into those deep blue eyes I’ve seen so often in my dreams.

She doesn’t blink. She looks right back. She’s older—of course—and somehow even more attractive than I remember. I consider whether as we age, we remember the past times, but we also move on, aging relatively to each other so that when we do meet our acquaintances of years gone by, not much seems different at all.

Out of the corner of my eye at the entrance is another girl. Younger this time, but just as flame-haired as the woman sitting in front of me. She is chatting with the guy at the desk.

“So, what’s been going on with you then?” I ask, wondering how she will answer a question I‘ve wanted answered every one of those years.

The girl takes a seat at a table just behind my friend, holding my eye for a moment as she sits down. Her back is to us, and she flirts generously with our waiter, who scurries off with her order.

Lucky boy.

“Oh, you know. Career, family.” She’s being guarded. I still know her well enough after all these years to be sure of that. Maybe it’s the time that has passed. Perhaps she’s just as nervous as I am.

“So. Family?” People always like to tell you about family, I’ve found. It’s such a great way to get them talking.

“Two. A girl and a boy. Emily and James.” She looks down at her drink for a moment and smiles. A fond smile that is a little reminiscent.

“Emily’s just started at the University of Illinois. Languages. She’s been traveling. I can’t imagine where she gets it from. Just got back from Bali. Fiji. A year working in Australia and New Zealand. The intrepid traveller is our Emily.”

“And James?”

“He works in finance. Here in the city. Metals exchange. Futures. Loves it!”

“And what about you? What have you been up to?” she retorts, moving the conversation on.

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Right at the beginning. What did you do? After. . .”

There’s the crash of breaking glasses just at that moment. We both turn to look to see the minor catastrophe being cleared away. Damage that can never be repaired. Just like my life back then, and even now.

“I got an old rucksack out and went to India. Usual things there. Out of it for months on end. Getting over you.”

She laughs out loud this time and causes the woman behind her to turn for a second, just before her own lunch date greets her with a warm embrace, and they begin to chat.

“You didn’t fret about me, did you?” She chuckles and takes another sip of her wine. “We said we had to. We agreed.”

I force a slow, considered nod, because that’s really what we did do. We did agree. And I regretted it from that moment on.

“I never got over you.”

“It was better that way.” She leaves no room for debate, and even though I am actually still as hurt as I ever was, it is true. We agreed on the cold, wet pavement, that our time was up. “You wanted adventure, travel, to see the world. And I didn’t. It is what it is.”

“I loved you then, and I love you now,” I blurt out. She looks right at me and I can tell, I lose her to her thoughts for a couple of moments.

“And now? Work? Family?”

“I don’t have any family. I was married—until recently—but I never settled with her. I couldn’t, really. Not after us, actually.”

I attempt to push away the decision I made back then and blame her. To avoid the responsibility. Lashing out a little under the chilly sun in downtown Chicago all these years later.

“Sorry. Sorry.” I know I’ve been harsh, but I can see that she doesn’t take it badly.

“Listen to you there. And you were always the one who said that we had choices and made decisions for those choices. They were our ‘fault’, and we had to live by them.”

“I know. I also said I should have no regrets. But leaving you—our agreeing to part—is the only regret I have.”

I change the subject, “Tell me about your husband. What does he do?”

There’s a burst of laughter from the table behind, disturbing us again as she considers what to say next.

“There isn’t one. Never has been. After you, how could there be? Whatever we said. But now is a moment where you need to be brave. Be strong and listen to what I say, for I have a surprise for you.”

At that moment we are disturbed again by the couple behind her. The two people seem to be getting up to leave, but as they do, they turn and walk over to her and hug her.

“I want you to meet these two. Emily. And James.”

The two young, bright people come over to greet me, shaking hands firmly. Letting go slowly. Both look me right in the eye, just like their mother does.

“Your children?” I ask. “These are your two?”

“No,” she says, “they are not my two.” She looks at them both and all three hug closely together for a long moment. They have tears in their eyes as they all look at me and she explains.

“These two are our two. They are your children too, Michael. Twins. Emily and James.”

This time, there are no handshakes. There are very long and very warm hugs for me, first from Emily and then from James.

“I was pregnant when we split. I didn’t want to hold you back from your adventures, so I let sure you take them. And then well, life and distance got in the way.

“And now, it is time. It is long past time.”

“But…but,” I stammer.

“I know you never knew. But only recently was the time right. Only recently were you free to understand all of this.”

She holds my attention. Her eyes meet mine and never leave.

Like I never will again.

Prompt: I Never Knew | Word Count: 1800 | Genre: Romance