I was cleaning out the basement and came across an old box of papers. Inside were assignments from college, class notes I'd kept for who knows why, and heaps of old love letters. I also found a page in my old photo album black and white pictures I'd taken with my girlfriend Robyn. She was on the yearbook staff, and had an old Nikon camera. One day she was teaching me photography and I took a series of her in various sexy poses. I gave her the film roll and one night she let herself into the school darkroom and printed the images for me. In my memory, we had at least a dozen images. I could only find four. Looking at them now, yellowed, faded, they seemed so old, belonging to another time. Her center-parted hair and her thick bush seem as if from another era entirely. I guess it was a different century. A different Millennium, even.
Our break up was filled with the heavy drama of kids in their early 20s. She'd cheated on me, and in turn, I cheated on her. At The time, fueled by injury, I'd destroyed all my pictures of her. I don't know how I missed these, if it was fate they'd survive. But I'm glad they did.
