You may not remember me for more than one fateful instant, more than a few years ago, when my knee (along with the rest of my larger than life body) made contact with you in a painfully intimate connection.
It was in a PE class, and you were a year below me. Our teachers had split the classes off into groups for a friendly game of knock-out. Immersed in watching the game, I paid little attention to you, barely even aware that soon we would be facing one another on the courts.
Then our number was called.
We were head to head, running straight for that basketball and a hope for glory. The adrenaline was coursing through my system, but as we got closer to one another something changed.
I stumbled, pinwheeling to try to stop myself from the predicted course of trajectory, but it was no use. A collision most painful, as I’m sure you have tried to forget. Our bodies collided and we fell. My knee, in a desperate attempt to put a stop to my forward momentum, made contact with the only solid surface within reach.
This also happened to be, embarrassingly (and painfully), your crotch.
I don’t remember details of this day, so long ago it was (and, like most painful memories, I have tried to erase it), but I have always wondered about your state, in the aftermath of the collision. I myself did not come out of it unscathed, though I feel my injuries paled incredibly in comparison to those you must have suffered at my hands (or, well, knee).
Badly bruised, tender, and still -after all this time- slightly less than capable of supporting me at times, my knee -and, by proxy, myself- survived the encounter.
But did you?
I do not know your name, or whether you even recall those startlingly painful moments, but I will carry the burden of this knowledge my entire life: Once, I need a man so hard in the balls, I couldn’t walk.
And yet you did.
You simply got up and walked away.
I may never know you, but I do hope you have since recovered.
Fare you well, dear stranger!
The girl who remembers.