We were kids. You shut the door on me in the pouring rain. You had this wide-eyed, crazy grin on your face all the time amused with yourself and that was enough. How did I know how to tell a boy I liked him? I just knew your breath smelled like listerine when you got on the schoolbus in sleepy half dawn You sat behind me and sometimes, if I peeked my eye through the crack between the seat and window, you'd smile and share your headphones with me, a simple song or two from The Postal Service. On brave days, I'd scoot back to be closer and breathe you in in tentative girlish awe. You laid your head down on my lap to nap the rest of the trip and I'd watch you, holding my breath, slowly playing with your orange curls spilling through my fingers like sunlight. Almost a decade later, I've forgotten the schoolbus. We're reunited with a group, eating sushi, laughing until we cry at my spicy face and the clumsy way I can't hold chopsticks taunt. But reaching past you, I brush your hair on accident and stop short, the sensation tingling my fingers, remembering how more than once I've gazed at you in wonder.