This story is a journey through my memory, my memories of the love of my lifeDean Fisher. This memory is rated pg 16 due to graphic language and unpleasantpictures. Believe it or not, this is a romance story.
Two hundred and Seventy seven days, that’s how many days of torture I have beenthrough; how many days it has been since I held him or kissed him. It was also thelast day I made love to him. I miss him, I need him and I am utterly lost without him.My first kiss was with him and the first school dance I attended I was on his arm. Hewas my high school sweet heart and I his; but it wasn’t always sweet.We’ll just say he wasn’t the valedictorian, he wasn’t even close.Middle school was not so bad, just the occasional skip here and smoke a cigarette inthe bathroom there. Sometimes he would smoke pot before school and get caughtby the principle because his clothes reeked of the stench, but that was just thebeginning.I was no perfect angel either; I did most of those things with him. We were alwaystogether during school, after school, and on the weekends. We never got tired of each other, not like a lot of our friends would. So many times I watched my friend’sget their hearts broken and I also watched them break some as well. I didn’tunderstand it, how you could say you love someone one day then hurt them in themost awful way the next.I didn’t tell Dean I loved him for a long time, I think it was six months before I saidthose three little—but very precious—words. He actually said them first; it was verysweet seeing it was coming from him. Dean is tall, 6’4, and built very athletic,always has been. He never played sports or worked out to keep it that way, he justis. He has a very manly bravado about him and he makes sure everyone knows it. You wouldn’t expect him to be sitting next to his girlfriend down in the boondockslistening to My Best Friend by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill in the back of his old F150with a blanket wrapped around us. But he did, and he did it often.He told me he loved me around five months in, I think. We were in the back of histruck by the Columbia River that divides and follows Portland and Vancouver, thencontinues East and West for who knows how far. It was our spot—the boondocks—and I did not know what to say. I told him I wasn’t really sure what love meant. Hewas sweet about it and told me he didn’t want me to say it if it wasn’t true and thathe wanted me to know that he did. I cried on his shoulder that night and he held mewhile we watched the sun set, promising us another day together.