Nobody Wants To Be Changed

Vivid dreams of being on a large ferry, out on the open Pacific Ocean. There’s no land in sight, and I’m sitting next to the railing beside my first boyfriend. The wind is whipping wildly through our hair, as our legs dangle over the edge of the boat and the sun warms our backs.

I glance in his direction, and his reply to my gaze is that signature smile of his. That smile is more of a knowing smirk than a toothy grin.

His hair is dark blonde and cut short, with highlights shining in the sunlight, just as it was back when I was 15 and he was 18.

I haven’t seen him in 15 years, and I don’t even have a single photo of him to look back upon, so my mind is working overtime to fill in the blanks during this dream.

He looks similar to how I remember him, but with a few extra deep-set wrinkles on his forehead, and a few extra pounds of fat around his waistline.

We were together for 3 months. In “teenage time,” this felt like a lifetime. In adult time, this is a fraction of one year of so many years in an entire lifetime.

He desired me, he pursued me. I wasn’t used to it. I was more accustomed to playing the role of the awkward best friend, with unkempt frizzy, wavy hair — hiding behind an oversized hoodie and ill-fitting jeans.

I was genuinely stunned that someone found me attractive and made it clear they wanted to be with me. It was a welcome break from pining quietly after crushes, being too afraid of rejection to approach them.

Although he made his attraction to me clear from the start, I didn’t like him very much at first. He listened to music that was loud and abrasive to my ears. (So loud that during one of our drives, a cop car pulled him over to let him off with a warning as long as he turned his music down to a reasonable level.) His outlook on life was somewhat bleak. He surrounded himself with the kinds of people who were involved in drugs. He…

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