Funny thing technology, it can work for you or against you. The internet for example – marvellous opportunities for communication and research, but it also enables people to trace you – some that you may quite possibly prefer couldn’t! Outraged husbands you have cuckolded, ex-wives seeking all those withheld alimony payments. The group of retirees you fleeced of their life-savings with that fake investment scam.

But then there was Amy!

Not twenty-four hours after “On The Banks of The Ohio” appeared in print, I received an email from Amy herself who incredibly, had read the account, and which she wrote in her email had emotionally drained her, as she re-lived in her own mind, all we shared so intimately that afternoon almost eight long years ago.

We have neither corresponded or been in contact with one another all that time.

Just twenty-four now herself, her communique filled in those missing years whilst mine back to her, achieved a similar purpose. She wrote of her regret that we were apparently never to see each other again and that for quite some time afterwards, she had cried herself to sleep wishing she could have spent more time with me. Fortuitous though it was that she had not fallen pregnant that day. Such an eventuality quite obviously not the ideal upshot, with two years of school yet to run.

I confided to her that my on-going journey to Columbus and beyond that evening, was not without great sadness to myself and that had it not been for my strict work itinerary, my impulse was to go back to New Richmond and tell her that which I felt, despite the inappropriate age-difference.

“Well I don’t live all that far from there now,” she emailed, “Do you still feel like coming back to tell me?”

Having been a creature of impulse all my life, I was on the first plane out of Sydney, Tuesday morning.

Barely four weeks since I completed the same thirteen-and-a-half hour haul out to ‘Frisco en route to Denver, at least I could look forward to a different forwarding flight – to Columbus this time. I felt like a drive – which was just as well, Springfield is some ninety-five minutes due west of the city (OK, eighty minutes the way I drive) along Interstate 70.

Picking up a Chrysler Sebring convertible from a cute little brunette, resident at Thrifty’s sales desk at Columbus International, I hit the highway, wondering what seven years or so might have done to my recalled images of young Amy. Then I glanced in the rear-vision mirror. Yikes! what had those same years wreaked on my crowning glory, not to mention that unsightly roll gathering prominence around my waistline. For a moment I hoped that her looks had faded too – somewhat leveling the playing field, I rationalized.

The Marriott Courtyard on South Fountain, sandwiched between West Main and West High Streets is a class act any way you look at it and the food they dish up in the Meta Urban bistro there is worth a stay in itself.

Unpacking the small amount of luggage I had brought, I called Amy’s cellphone, it being mid-afternoon.

“Hello,” she answered, almost shyly. The soft voice sounded exactly as I remembered it.

“Is it too late in the day for hotcakes?” I enquired.

I suspect she was about to say “Pardon me?” but then I heard a little gasp of surprise instead.

“Is that you Noel?” she asked breathlessly. “Are you in Springfield already?”

“Well either that, or you’re talking to some incredibly well- programmed hologram sweetheart,” I told her. “Yep just checked into the Marriott Courtyard Hotel – you know where that is?”

“Oh yes,” she answered, “Want me to come over now?”

“Up to you,” I countered. “You can just send me an email instead if you prefer.” She giggled ... the most delightful of girlish attributes.

“I’ll take my chances,” she whispered.

“Silly girl,” I replied hitting “end call.” Wonderful thing international roam!

Not forty minutes later, the lightest of knocks on my door.

“Thank God, my hot-cakes at last.” I said, swinging wide the door to my suite.

Takes a lot to surprise me. What stood on my thresh-hold definitely surprised me. Now she looked only nineteen ... if that! Same hair, same face – same beautiful figure ... absolutely nothing changed. I was almost embarrassed to be there.

“OK Amy,” I muttered “This some sort of illusion? You got George Lucas’ Industrial Light and Magic working on your case? What’s the story here? ... you hardly look a day different!”

Her blushing just made her look younger still.

“Well, I guess you may as well come in sweetheart.” I told her, taking her arm and propelling her into my room. Catches like this you definitely don’t toss back in the river.

“Would you like a drink Amy?” I asked, glancing towards the mini-bar. “Nothing less than ten bucks a can I’d be guessing. Maybe if we both have one they’ll discount the bill at check-out?”

“Why don’t we go out and have something?” she suggested, smiling prettily.

I wasn’t really listening, taking in the vision standing there. Short but ultimately tasteful little midnight-blue skirt, cream colored top with lacy edging and the same tiny gold pendant she had worn that day in New Richmond. Flawless little face with not a line to suggest she was now approaching her mid twenties. Her blonde shoulder-length hair was cut much the same as it had been all those years ago. Worse, my fully depraved faculties were wishing she had worn that sexy little school uniform again. I thought it best not to mention this particular fact.

Putting my arm around her waist, I found a pair of lips in close proximity to my own. Does a cat pass-up a sparrow within a paw’s reach? No way - nor was I likely to allow so golden an opportunity to pass unchecked.

She tasted even better. Slipping her arms around my neck, she returned my kiss with much the same passion I recall us mustering that day down by the Ohio river.

“Yeah, well about that little walk,” I coughed nervously. Another few moments like this and the “do not disturb” sign would have been getting a work-out!

Again that cheekiest of smiles. I just grabbed her hand and we took off.

Strolling northwards along Fountain Avenue we came across a hospitable little eatery called “Station 1.” Whilst not exactly a five star restaurant ... it is after all, eat-in or take-away, the menu was good and the décor acceptable. I had me an enormous ham and turkey club sandwich that was big enough to need scaffolding, while Amy settled for their “Philly Cheesesteak” – a tempting steak, onion, peppers and provolone creation that would satisfy anyone nudging starvation. We shared a plate of french fries.

Conversationally we touched on anything and everything from recalled moments of shared intimacy that day in New Richmond, to “Trump’s” (then) likely short-term hold on the Presidency. I learned that Amy was basically unattached, as was I then, and that despite the occasional boyfriend, no one had yet put down a holding deposit. Not that Amy herself had come across anyone likely to be invited to do so.

Pigged-out and refreshed, we strolled back along Main Street looking at a few shops but ultimately conversation of a wholly different nature seemed to be indicated and thus we returned to the Courtyard.

Seating herself demurely on the edge of the bed while I shifted a few things into the cupboard, she giggled softly.

“This is way comfier than last time I was with you.”

Whether by design or accident, I rather think the latter, I could hardly fail to notice suddenly that the hemline of her skirt had shifted well up her thighs and if that wasn’t a glimmer of enticing light-colored material snuggling up there just beyond the periphery of my up-skirt vision, then fancy was outstripping reality.