Then you just appeared on Saturday. I tried not to stare, tried not to gasp in awe at the man you had become, but you were staring too, perhaps a bit in shock at how I had changed. You were not the boy I had remembered from all those years before. We exchanged the pleasantries and small talk of two people who wanted to say something to each other but were too afraid to really get involved, both of us merely hinting at flirtation.

Your contacts bothered you so you took them out and when I thought you couldn't get any more perfect, you put those glasses on that made you look so brilliant and sexy. Had you spoken to me just then I don't think I could have resisted fogging those glasses up just a bit.

When you left you hugged me like the old family friend that I was, and I hugged back in kind, terrified to admit to myself that what I really wanted was to kiss those lips that were so close to mine. I wonder if you felt the same. I doubt that you did and I know it's a bad idea to get involved given our mothers' friendship. Our kind of romance would never last anyway.

But no one would disapprove if I wished on a star that night anyway.