Middleage Adolescence

One the rainy afternoon she thought of him. She often thinks of him. Too often. Then she typed his familiar name into her search engine. He came up in New York. He was always the city boy, even when the city was a town of two hundred.
She held her breath and dialed his number, not know what she would say, her heart pounding in her thought.
He answered on the second ring. "Hullo?"
He wasn't ever home on a Sunday afternoon. Never. He was out racing fast bikes, knocking up cheerleaders, out running the cops.
She expected his answering machine to tell her this.
So she gasp and hung up the phone like a giddy adolescent.
And worried after all these years he would know it was her. It was always her.
She knows she should write her story. But that part of him belongs to her. And she noes not want to share.