Mr. Magnum and I have been friends since kindergarten.
In my eighth grade yearbook, he wrote, in red magnum marker on the inside of the back cover, “DID YOU STUFF AT RIVERSIDE?” – a reference to my embarrassing new “buds” that appeared in the bikini I chose for our school trip to the water park. I still have a jarring flashback whenever I hear the "Snow" song, "Informer," which I'm pretty sure played on the bus ride back to campus.
Fresh off a divorce, Mr. Magnum meets up with our mutual friend (Mr. Friend) and me at the local watering hole we frequent bi-weekly. And from the second he arrives, it is somehow totally ON.
I try to ignore him, as the fumes of the red magnum have burned permanently and angrily into my brain, but he insists that he will spend the rest of our lives making it up to me and I sort of believe in forever and him.
We are very casual. We both wear hoodies and like cheese pizza and beer.
Our relationship includes the comfort of having known each other for nearly three decades. We are already familiar with each others’ families and friends. He's the guy I call to help me move a mattress. After, he comes over to my parent's house for dinner. It isn't weird.
For a few weeks and about six dates, we have an incredible connection and then he disappears. Not being the type of girl who phones men who aren’t actively pursuing her, I mourn this relationship quietly and move on.
I hear from Mr. Friend that Mr. Magnum met an incredible woman and they marry in May and I am sincerely happy for them, though mildly surprised/confused that I wasn't in the running and moderately sad that I was the last gal he dated before he picked a new bride.