The Beautiful

I once knew this guy from somewhere in England. His name was Andrew, and he was my voyeuristic neighbors great-nephew. I was in the ninth grade when he came to Canada, and I have no idea how old he was. A lot of innocent flirting took place between the two of us. I thought he was unbelievably cute, and his British accent made my heart skip a beat. I took him to school with me one day so that he could get a feel for what the Canadian education system was like. The other kids bombarded him with questions, and eventually the teacher told me that she'd kick us out of the classroom if we continued to be such a huge distraction.
We ended up cutting out early, and I skipped the rest of my classes that day. We slowly made our way back to my house, the sun shining bright over our heads. Every so often there was a playful push, followed by an awkward silence. He introduced me to The Beautiful South, and gave me his CD's to listen to. He frequently wore a t-shirt with the bands name on it, and had confessed to me that he wore it so often because it was his favorite shirt.
I had nothing to offer him in return, and no CD's to share with him. I wanted desperately to have something that I could impress him with.
The morning, before he left, he knocked on my door. When I opened it I found him standing there, favorite shirt in hand, with his bags along side him. He gave me his shirt, his favorite shirt, and left me his address.
He told me to write him.
I never did.
It is days like these, when I am overcome with a strong desire to travel, that I think of Andrew. I wonder if I should ask my neighbors for his address again, and if he'd even remember who I am. I think of writing him a letter, telling him of the hours I spent listening to his CD's just so that I had one more thing that I could say to him the next day. I wonder if he enjoyed that summer as much as I did.
I miss that time.
I miss that innocents.