if he was my friend, it was a long time ago

I caught him staring and it seemed he was really...looking, and I didn't know what to think of that.
I know his stares. I know him. I know him so well sometimes it pisses me off, and once upon a time the lack of reciprocal knowledge was of much concern. That is a whispery memory. Still, I know the knowledge of him like I accept my ability to speak limited spanish or my understanding of healthcare mico-economics.It's a passive memory. It just is. Yet it still presents with oscillating relevance. Sometimes I see a sign in Spanish and read that first, without realizing I'm skipping the readily available English version, right above. I momentarily resent the extra work my mind involuntarily does. But there is nothing I can do about it.
That is the mind. Not the heart.
And so I caught him staring like he was trying to figure something out. For the first time. Not a stare I recognized. A new stare. And I couldn't help but to wonder what. Like my text book was suddenly asking personal questions about my love life. Like algebra wanted to know the way to the bathroom. And I wondered how we'd lost such fundamental elements of human intimacy. I wondered when it became academic. And, perhaps, if this was the last chance I had to make him human, once again, my revealing some of my own humanity.

I caught the stare. I smiled. But I looked away. And I didn't say a word. It's like it never happened.