A love letter to the best friend I only met once
I’m pretty sure that’s your name.
Do you remember me?
Don’t feel bad—I honestly wouldn’t recognize you if you were directly in front of me. That’s the hazard of talking to people, while sitting side by side at a barely lit bar.
We met sometime in the past at an odd, little bar, someplace in California, where you could still smoke inside, long after the law said otherwise. It wasn’t a great bar, and the bartender reminded me of my best friend’s ex-girlfriend, which was even less great.
You still had a flip phone, in a time when still having a flip phone was a distinct choice. I don’t remember anything we talked about, but I remember we had a good time chatting. Alternatively, I was drunk, and you were polite.
When your flip phone rang and you had to go, you said from now on we’d be best friends, even though we’d never talk to or see each other again.
Wherever we were, whatever we were doing, we’d know that our best friend was out there somewhere in the world.
Rooting for us.
Caring for us.
Nothing had ever sounded better. Nothing ever has.
I think about you not infrequently. The thought of you out there in the world honestly makes things better. Every time.
When I tell people about you, they doubt you remember me. I wonder why they think that matters. I think it’s the whimsy of it all.
I hope you’re well. I trust you are.
(That’s kind of the deal, isn’t it…)
whoever you (mis)remember me as
Megan Cannella (she/her) is a Midwestern transplant currently living in Nevada. Her debut chapbook, Confrontational Crotch and Other Real Housewives Musings, is out now and available at https://linktr.ee/mcannella. You can find Megan on Twitter at @megancannella.