Copyright 2003 Frank Downey. All rights reserved. Any use other than personal archiving requires the permission of the author. Do not repost.

This story contains adult material. If this is illegal where you reside or if you are underage where you reside, begone.

It had lasted for six months. It had ended six months ago. The former flew by in a flash. The latter seemed to have stretched on for ten years.

We were both stubborn as bulls, and I had a temper. I don't even recall what started it. All I remember is ecstatic lovemaking--typical for us--leading, somehow, to a screaming fight. Which lead to my abrupt, hasty, and--I shouted--permanent exit. Like I said, stubborn with a temper.

I was miserable. I still loved him. He was The One. I knew it then, and I surely knew it now. I'd blown it, and I was too damn stubborn--and, I admit, ashamed--to go fix it.

And I knew he wouldn't grovel, know when I had made the Grand Furious Exit.

So, six months after my ignominious exit, I was spending a Saturday night the way I had spent many since him--driving around aimlessly, feeling sorry for myself, listening to the radio. One of my favorite shows--one of his, too--all eighties music from eight to midnight, every Saturday.

About 9:30, the DJ took a phone call. "Chris from Woburn, you're on the air."

Chris from Woburn?

I recognized his voice at once. "Hi, Joe. I'd like to dedicate 'Missing You', by John Waite, to Eileen, my true love."

I almost drove off the road. Oh God. Then I slammed the quickest U-turn in the history of driving.

He knew I'd be listening. He knew I loved that song. He knew me as well as I knew myself. Still.

I broke land speed records getting to his condo. When he opened the door, he saw me, and got this devastatingly hopeful look on his face. "You heard it?"

I didn't answer--not with words. I launched myself at him--kissing, clutching, hugging, sobbing, wailing "I'm sorry!" in between kisses. Then I was grabbing--at his clothes. I wanted them off.

His front door opened into his living room. We made it all of five feet inside--and never made it off the floor. It was the make-up fuck of all time.

Afterwards, I asked him, "Why? Why now?"

He sighed. "Every day that went by, my wounded pride seemed less and less important." He smiled. "I actually decided to do this a month ago. I haven't been able to get through to the station until tonight."

"Why didn't you just call?" I giggled.

"I wasn't sure you wouldn't hang up on me."

I sighed. "I love you. Nothing was the same without you."

"I agree, and I love you, too."

"I hope you do," I grinned, "since you just told the Greater Boston listening area!"

--The end--