text: [Themes: love & dating]
  
  No, that's not what happened. You wouldn't have done that, touched me straight away. You've always been reluctant to touch, a natural timidity, or delicacy, or whatever you want to call it. You warm up, of course, letting me slide my hand into your sleeve to touch your upper arm lightly, a caress that we both know drives you crazy, and then you'll respond, perhaps, shivering and touching your lips to my jaw, telling me you love me.
  
  But you would not, you would certainly not, have touched me like that, right there in the cafeteria.
  
  > But what if you had? What if you had touched you?
  It's nice to think about, here from a distance of 20+ years, getting the focus of our former selves just so, to think of what our younger selves might have done, could have done, should have done.
  
  You would not approve, I think, of my fantasizing about a winsome, nubile, and wasp-waisted girl of eighteen, sooty-lashed, surprisingly large-breasted in spite of her slimness--and now, perhaps you are angry at my words, but what if that girl were you, twenty-plus years ago you, that all would be well That was the body, that is the body that I have planted my flag in, after all, and you were the moon, and I were an astronaut claiming outer space for America--I want to say Buzz Aldrin, but that might not be right.
  
  > Know there was that hidden nook in the cafeteria near where people bused their trays.
  It's pleasant to imagine, isn't it? And I would write this if I thought anyone but you would see these words. But if you are here, if you have clicked these links, you must want to fantasize with me, and it's just you and me, Natalie, just us, and we're just thinking about our past selves.
  
  Part of the fun is that they don't even know, limited by being trapped in the past as they are.
  
  If you had taken my hand suddenly, and with a look, a furtive tilt of your head, a slight movement, you could have indicated that hidden nook where people bus their trays by placing them on a rather old-fashioned chain-and-gears conveyor belt that led to the automatic dishwasher.
  
  The meal (was it brunch?) had just started, so nobody would be returning their trays, not yet, so the nook would be wholly abandoned. Minimum of ten minutes before anyone could possibly be done, plus there was chocolate cheesecake that day, so add, say, three minutes for that, for a total of thirteen minutes. Assume someone might rush or not like the food, so knock half of that off for a very conservative and enticing six-and-a-half minutes of guaranteed, pure uninterrupted pleasure in the privacy of the nook by the tiny and rather dark busing area.
  
  > Shouldn't have leaned back on the conveyer belt. That was a mistake.
  Yes, that's right. You leaned way back on the conveyer belt. Let's say I thought that was hot, like, even though it was kind of wet and probably had a few suds on it, you didn't care, because you were so turned on, you didn't care if you got a little messy, which I thought forebode well for my prospects.
  
  So then I came closer to kiss you...
  
  > When your shirt and jeans belt loop both got stuck in the metal conveyer belt, trapping you.
  Are we doing slapstick comedy here? You were kind of getting me worked up. Seriously, Natalie.
  
  > It's funny. You're totally trapped, and then the conveyor belt starts moving.
  OK, fine. We can do it your way.
  
  So for some reason, the conveyor belt starts moving, I don't know why, there's no dishes or trays yet, but all right. They are warming it up. So now, I have a dilemma. You are about to be pulled into the automatic dishwashing system. But there's probably workers back there who will notice you and shut it down before you are submerged into the scalding hot water and industrial-abrasive spray and caustic chemical. Probably.
  
  They have the radio on back there, really loud, so screaming won't work.
  
  So the question, really, is, since the conveyor belt is going pretty slowly, do I try to rescue you and be a big hero, or do I try to get a minute of touching in while you are being pulled into the wall?
  
  > Think you'd be a big hero.
  It figures you'd pick this, but all right, let's see what I can work with. I pull you, but you can't be freed. So I realize that if I run out of the nook and alert everyone, all of the students around would just look at me dumbly and you'd be gone. So my only choice is to ride the conveyor belt with you. So I hop on, on top of you.
  
  Remember, we haven't really met yet. I have no idea who you are. We don't know each other's names, even.
  
  And we're being pulled into the wall, down the conveyor belt, being blasted with alternate blasts of acid and base, and being scrubbed and tossed around by inside-the-car-wash brushes. I'm tearing your clothes off, not erotically, just to free you from the belt, and finally the material gives way, and we are covered in first-degree burns, having fallen to the floor of the dishwashing automaton I imagine back there, and the burns are smeared in detergent and no-stain Krystal Klear solution, and you are howling in pain, naked and wet and slippery and red, and on top of me, but I've saved you, and even when the workers finally find us, we are there, joined in love, squeaky clean and asking each other our names.
  
  You have a really sick fantasy mind, Natalie, and I love it.
  
  Happy Anniversary. I'm going to remember this one. Maybe some day we can make it real.