It’s always the same, the facts.
The retelling of them, not so much. A detail here and there is added or removed. Not out of deliberate editing, but for the simple reason that each retelling is different.
And so, there are a lot of “maybes.” This is a story then, about a girl who broke my heart. Maybe.
One day, when I was younger, a beautiful girl broke my heart. One of my friends, taking pity on my situation, and no doubt sick of my moping, asked me to help him DJ at a party near his house. This was when DJs actually needed people to carry discs. It was a paying gig, so I said yes.
On the way there, I rolled down the passenger side window on a lonely stretch of road alongside a valley. I took a deep breath and shouted about how she was the only one for me and that I still loved her.
I remembered the cool breeze across my face, his laughter at my defiant act, the brush whipping past us and the the smell of the desert air.
At the party, while bringing in the third milk crate of vinyl, I met a different beautiful girl that night. She wrote down her number on a post it note and gave it to me.
Later, after the party was over, along that same lonely stretch of road alongside that same valley, my friend stopped the car and looked at me expectantly.
I rolled down the window, took a deep breath, and shouted that perhaps, well, maybe, possibly. . . she wasn’t the only one for me.
Perchance.