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Mr. S
- Lady Ronit
- Mar 30
- 3 min read
Some people are in our lives only so that we can write about them, at least that's what the poet's logic tells me. Mr. S—not from a name, but from the codename "Snail"—as I call him, somehow found his way back into my reality. Let's say a friendship developed between us, a childish one. I was probably fourteen, he was not much older. A good boy. Shy, a little naive, a very golden-hearted kid, but he never boasted—that's why we liked him.
Now, from an adult's perspective, high school and teenage experiences are judged completely differently, paradoxically lived through so recently. But when I was hanging out with Mr. S, I was still in late elementary school. Thinking about his life's current twists and turns, I realize my childhood friend was not so much well-behaved as closely watched, or at least strongly aware. He wasn’t better than us, less corrupted—he had just understood earlier how the game worked and what really mattered in life—connections. That’s why he was the good, helpful kid to us, almost like a distant cousin or a young uncle. Were they already thinking about IPOs back then? Maybe he wanted to be on the company board or was tempted by the CEO chair. After all, he was already 16.
We kissed once—after all, that’s what our high school friends were for—so did we sin? Well, alright, I lied a little, it was only on the cheek. And we could have kissed, but he didn’t dare go further. He was innocent. That memorable event is where his operational codename, "Snail," comes from. My whole cheek was dripping with his saliva. How did he do it? I have no idea. But I ran to wash my face immediately, and my friends laughed at him every time they happened to see him. I was 14.
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