Who’da thunk it?

Wednesday, January 16th, 2013

I dated a Muslim girl, in high school.  Her parents didn’t know; we had to do a lot of running around, and they never found out.  (She had been my wife, in a past life!  She was Queen of England!  She was Portuguese, and it was one of those “arranged marriage” deals!)  Nobody told us.

Years later, I referenced this relationship to someone I worked with in the office of the University I graduated from (I worked in accounting; she worked in C.A.D. databases/Planning).  She laughed at my relative inexperience, and said she had dated plenty of people since high school, though I hadn’t mentioned that this was so.

Turns out: she had been my sister!  She was a Princess!

The last day of work — for me, I was moving out-of-state, to boot — someone took our picture: me, standing there with my arm around her, almost a head taller than her, both of us beaming at the camera — and, after some months of bickering about incidental, conversational, cultural things (our job tasks didn’t cross each other’s), we really patched things up when I was leaving.  Looking at the photo — as I did, from time to time thereafter — there was this odd-but-precise “chime” struck in my heart, of having “settled” things amicably with her.

MORAL:  Sheesh!

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