It was one of those I-needed-a-chair, she-had-an-extra-seat-at-her-table situations at Lestat’s. We get to talking, the conversation’s great which is hard to find in this town. And as is required by natives and semi-natives we exchange high school information.

“Really? My brother and sister went there about that time.”

This turns to that, and I’m picking her up on Thursday. In the intervening days she’s picked up her brother’s yearbook from 1989. To taunt me, of course.

Point to one of the pictures she says, “Here is my brother. I don’t know if you recognize him.”

Oh, I recognized Gregory W-. “Wait. Your last name is ‘W-‘?”

“Yeah.”

“And your sister is Kathy W-?”

“Oh my god, you know my sister?”

I was on a date with the little sister of the subject of my first pointless, high school crush. I’d been in her house seventeen years ago when she was in the fifth grade. It’d be creepy if it hadn’t all been coincidence.

Four days and two dates later she breaks up with me. (She wants kids and I’ve taken steps not to.)

Driving home, it occurred to me that I’d just been jilted by one of the W- girls: Again.

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