Friends, this post comes with a MUSHY WARNING, because yes, I may get a little mushy with a side of peas.
Yesterday, The Man and I got a bit romantic. “I’ll never forget when we were first dating,” he said, “and I went to collect you from the station. You were walking down the platform in a tank top with a big, red rose on the front, a pleather jacket, and jeans. You saw me, smiled and waved, and I thought, Wow, I’m in love.”
I told him that I too remember that time vividly. When we first met, I had a fellowship at the Writers Room of Boston—under my then pen name—so I’d work there on free afternoons. One night, The Man was waiting for me outside the train station, and I was walking towards him. The busy street around me grew faint and distant, and all I could see was him. He was wearing blue jeans and his wavy hair was ruffling in the wind. He turned and I felt his gaze meet mine, even though I was too far away to see his eyes. And I thought to myself, “Wow, I’m in love.”
As a psychology student, I remember learning about flashbulb memories. The idea is that some memories, notably those of shocking public events, are stored in a different way that makes them vivid with detail—almost like a photograph. For me, when I’m reading or writing romance, I adore the moments that are flashbulb-like. Time seems to slow down and the world around our protagonist grows distant—and when that happens in a good way, all they can see is the beauty.
Many of you will likely know what I mean, regardless of whether we’re talking about romance. Those moments can stay with us, vivid and fresh, untouchable. Sometimes, they can change us.
Romancey Pants 