At the school Christmas party, our class was playing a game called Catch the Kumamon. The Catchers had to roam around a pitch-black room and give bear hugs to the defenseless Kumamons. The captured Kumamon would then wait five seconds before dropping to the floor. To maximize efficiency, most Catchers would opt for a gentle tap on the shoulder. Not Anya, though. This girl might have been small in stature, but her bear hug was notorious for sucking the breath right out of the victim’s lungs.
Anya and I crossed paths more than once, and each time, there was a sort of exhilaration to it, as if we were two dancers caught in an intricate tango milonga. Eventually, she cornered me between the bookshelves. We locked eyes for a moment before she wrapped her arms around my waist, pushing her body up against mine. Her breath had a faint aroma of cafeteria milk latte.
“Got you,” she whispered.
And I replied, “You got me.”
It was raining outside. Each droplet carried a tang of rotting food and wet trash from the dumpster outside, wafting up to the third floor and into our classroom. Anya was on cleaning duty this evening. On paper, I was not supposed to be here. My request to change shifts was still pending.
“Hey, my Kumamon is really mopping today!” she said. Nobody enjoyed mopping floors on Fridays because it meant scrubbing up a whole week’s worth of dirt and grime. I gave her a thumbs-up. “Livin’ the dream.”
Along the dimly lit corridor, kids huddled in tight circles, jamming E&M music and shouting bets in front of a virtual Baccarat table. The whole scene reeked of sweat and stale cigarettes. In our classroom, Anya and I sat side by side on the edge of the teacher’s desk. We were supposed to be cleaning, but that chore had been abandoned hours ago.
Through the misty window, I watched a scraggly dog pacing back and forth on the pavement below, its fur soaked and matted. Anya leaned into me, her arm draping across my shoulders. She looked stunning in a dark blue skirt and my loose-fitting Nike hoodie. As we got closer, I could smell her peony-scented hair, along with the odor of plasticky markers and my cheap cologne. It was actually not a bad combo.
I think... she began slowly. I think I’m falling in love.
A brief interlude, and then—
With the new exchange student, she told me.
I smiled before returning my gaze to the stray dog outside the window. I watched it pause to sniff a crumpled bag of chips floating in a puddle. Rainwater soaked its unkempt fur, but it did not seem to mind.
I wished to be like that dog. So that my feelings could evaporate as easily as raindrops from its fur. I wanted to let the downpour wash away this heavy shackle around my chest.
Escaping from it all—even for a fleeting second.
I ran into Anya in a bar a few months before starting college. She was sitting alone at the last table by the window. Even after all these years, her mesmerizing gaze still made me stumble over my words. The pendant lights above the counter glistened, accentuating the reddish brown highlights in her now-chin-length bob. Gone were the long ponytails I remembered.
Anya drew me into an awkward hug, her fragrance washing over me like a nostalgic wave. We exchanged numbers and reminisced about high school in the same way that our grandparents did about their prime. She talked about her delinquent brother, her robotics collection, and why she chose to drop out of college. She did not talk much about her anxiety attacks.
“I’ve been taking some pills,” she said. “My family…they understand.”
As we headed out, the crisp summer breeze nipped at our faces. I called for a taxi, but Anya insisted on going for a walk in the nearby park. I don’t know; it’s almost midnight and I have a meeting tomorrow, I said. She understood and reached into her bag for my long-lost Nike hoodie. The damn thing still smelled like her. With a maternal touch, she draped it over my shoulder, loosened the knot, and tucked my hair under the hood.
“Always remember us this way,” she said, leaning in for a final hug.
We shared one last look and every emotion we felt for each other was captured in it. As the taxi pulled away, I glanced back at Anya, her slender sihoulette receding into the distance, getting smaller and smaller until she was nothing more than a mote that had once occupied a huge part of my life. I had no idea if we would ever sit together on a rainy day and stare out the window again, or if she would ever hug me from behind or holler, Hey, my Kumamon, from across the room.
I called her number the next morning. An automated message greeted me, saying the number you dialed did not exist. Even now, I find myself dialing that number occasionally in the hopes that one day, for whatever reason, she will pick up and I can tell her,
I always remember us this way.
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