Last night, Mr. Spy and I went to a movie. That is, in itself, a enough of a rarity that it is worthy of note, but that is not why I am writing about it.

The movie we saw was Music and Lyrics. It was cute. It had plenty of problems as a film, especially, as Mr. Spy put it, the �lack of romantic backstory� on Hugh Grant�s character. It was sketchy. But Grant and Barrymore were entertaining enough and the musical parodies were hilarious � the film opens with a spoof of a Wham! video and a tune called �Pop! Goes my Heart!� The character of the yoga-addled girl rock star Cora had me laughing out loud. And the repeat of the opening song as a VH1 Pop-Up video was a nice touch at the end. We also really liked the rejected lyricist, who reminded us so much of someone we know, that we would laugh like hyenas every time he came on screen.

I�m not sure I�d recommend the film universally, but aging Gen-Xers like myself will find the parodies amusing. We found ourselves in nostalgia mode when we went to dinner afterwards. When the restaurant�s truly bizarre soundtrack switched from Roberta Flack to Lionel Ritchie�s �Hello,� I was whisked back to senior prom, and so the stories began.

I attended my senior prom with a good friend who had transferred into our school during my senior year. We bonded for a number of reasons, but mainly because we both felt like outsiders in a high school where so many people seemed to have known each other since kindergarten � I had moved to Indy a few months before. P., though, had moved alone, without family, for reasons that are really not my business to discuss, but which still make me angry to think about. He had his own apartment and was looked after by an aunt and uncle who lived nearby. P. changed my entire social circle in a matter of weeks. Thanks to him, I found a place for myself that was both more comfortable and less safe � it was more me. I�ve often wondered what happened to him, but have never done anything about it.

We had a great time at the dance. P. is gay, so there was none of the pressure that I would have had with a date in whom I�d had a romantic interest. We had fun scoping out the men in the room, and tangoing flamboyantly across the dance floor at the Indiana Roof Ballroom. I saw him a couple of times that summer, but then, as graduates do, we dispersed, lost touch.

So this morning, after I sifted through an inbox full of Russian spam, I checked my web-based email accounts. A message turned up in one from cl@[email protected] saying someone had signed my profile. I set up my cl@ssm@tes account some years ago at the behest of a friend when a reunion was rolling around and I was unimpressed and let it expire, but I reupped and logged on to see the signature, because I was curious and maybe a little bored. It was from P., whom I haven�t seen or spoken to in more than twenty years.

So now I�m thinking about sending him an email. I�m not sure where to start. Dear P., It was so nice to see your name. I�ve often wondered what happened to you. What have you been doing for the last twenty years? And where have you been doing it? And with whom? I didn�t mean that as lasciviously at it sounds. Or then, maybe I do. I always thought you were dealt an incredibly raw deal to start and yet the last time I saw you, you were already coming through it with amazing grace and courage. I hope you�ve found all that you need, all that you wish, all that you deserve. I think you once told me that I saved your life. I know that you changed mine by encouraging me off the path that was safe and onto the one that felt right. I know you felt unsteady then, but I don�t know if you know how much I looked up to you for it. I will not send this message, but another one. I am no longer seventeen. I will probably talk about the weather, the children, the pets and places of employment. I will probably not even mention the Madonna photo shoot in your shower, even though I still have the pictures. I am unlikely to mention how I dried out your corsage and took it with me to college in a box covered with blue flowers and gold ribbon, along with a pin shaped like a violin, a red ribbon, a worn penny, and several strips of photo booth pictures. And while I�ll tell you that I�m married, I will not remind you that yours was the first but not the last proposal I received that was mostly but not entirely in jest � I laughed both of them off, but for different reasons. But I will ask you how you are. And if you can read between the lines, maybe you�ll divine my real questions. Maybe, as with your oddly timed reappearance, you have a way of divining the truth from the ether. You always could, you know.

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