It's funny. We were never really friends. But I was there, just me, when the doorbell rang. And he was there, just him, on the step. I didn't think much about opening the door. I could smell the freshly baked bread from where I stood, the crinkly brown bag in his hand. A delivery between our parents. Nothing more. He was popular. I was me.
I took the bag, retreating back into the sugar dusted kitchen. I invited him in. Why? I still don't know. Why he followed is an even deeper mystery.
He sat across from me, on the tall stool, the one with the wobbly leg. I plunged my arms elbow deep into my confection, a glorious mix of peanut butter and powdered sugar and chocolate. He laughed as a plume of sugar burst into the air.
"What in the world are you making?" he asks, laughing.
I smile into the bowl as I whisper,
"Peanut butter bars."
They are, and will, and have always been my guilty pleasure.
"I love peanut butter," he tells me.
I don't know what happened next. But we finished the rest of that jar of peanut butter, with two spoons and a lot of bad jokes. It was late by the time he left.
I saw him in the cafeteria the next day. I couldn't bring myself to say hello. As he walked by, one of the girls with him started coughing. It's funny how many people's coughs sound like they're saying, "Loser." They laughed as they walked away.
It's funny. We were never really friends. But I was there, just me, when the doorbell rang. And he was there, just him, on the step. He passed me again that day, and as he did, he smiled, leaned in, and whispered, "peanut butter."
