They met, again, on a Friday in May. She was watching her goddaughter graduate from kindergarten. He was a teacher.

It was a school-wide graduation. Five other classes were graduating. Being the only male teacher he was regulated to the side of the mock stage they had prepared just east of the play ground. He was to be in charge of the music.

She saw him first. Thought that she had recognized his back. Something about his neck, his shoulders kept drawing her eyes through the songs from The King and I, through a dance her goddaughter had called the "butterfly dance", through the recitations of names. He turned, at this point, applauding and whistling, and she couldn't breathe.

Nudging her friend, she pointed. Her friend, the mother, recognized him, too. They had gone on double dates. Her daughter had not been in his class. She didn't know he was even a teacher now.

Later, at the party, she walked toward him. He was now in charge of the punch. He was squatting, high-fiving a kid when he looked up. He stood slowly.

She noticed the way he had parted his hair. She noticed his dimple and how he scratched the back of his head.

Almost fifteen years ago they had been in bed, next to each other, naked. He had kissed the slopes of her shoulder blades and touched her hip. He had said I love you and meant it for the first time in his life. Her back had arched and her fingernails had scratched.

Three months after that night, almost to the day, she had packed her car and drove across country. A new life had been planned before him and she would not stop herself.