Every story has a beginning. Sometimes, that beginning is clear and deliberate—a spark of inspiration that feels undeniable. Other times, it sneaks up on you, a seemingly small moment that quietly takes root, only revealing its true significance years later.
For Reunion: A Story, that moment came in the late 1980s when I was a student at Miami-Dade Community College, South Campus. It was an assignment for CRW-2001, just another piece of coursework. Yet, as I wrote, I sensed something deeper—a thread that would weave itself into the fabric of a larger story.
What follows is the first dream sequence, the first romantic scene, and the first appearance of Marty Reynaud. It’s also the moment that pushed me to expand Reunion: A Story from a short fiction assignment into the novella that eventually led to my writing Reunion: Coda. In its earliest form, I imagined Jim and Marty dancing to Billy Joel’s This Night, but realizing the challenges of copyright, I took my first stab at crafting fictitious song lyrics.
This scene remains one of the emotional anchors of the Reunion Duology, and echoes of it appear throughout Reunion: Coda. The past is never truly past—it lingers in memories, in regrets, and in the quiet spaces where dreams and reality blur.
11 AM: South Miami Senior High/ The Library
I had been sitting in the library for nearly an hour when fatigue and emotional exhaustion finally caught up with me. I’d been leafing listlessly through the final issue of the school newspaper and had nearly finished the lead article (Assistant principal announces retirement) when my eyelids suddenly dropped like shutters on a window, and I drifted off into a deep slumber. I vaguely thought about classes, but – nothing ever happens on the last day – I suddenly didn’t care. Without hesitation, I put my head down on the table and allowed my mind to drop off into a misty netherworld of dreams.
This is what I dreamed:
I am sitting alone in my old English classroom at my old desk, reading from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The only sounds in the room are the ticking of the clock and the occasional rustling of the pages of the book. Then, Martina Reynaud, the most beautiful girl in the Class of ’83, walks in. She’s tall, graceful, and absolutely breathtaking. She’s wearing a black dress, one that shows off her long dancer’s legs. Her peaches-and-cream complexion is flawless; there is no sign of a pimple anywhere. Her long chestnut hair cascades down over her shoulders. In short, she is the personification of feminine elegance from the top of her head to her high-heeled shoes.
I try to get back to my reading assignment, but the scent of her perfume, a mixture of jasmine and orange blossoms, is beguiling. I look to my right; she is sitting at the desk right next to mine. She gives me a smile. My heart skips a beat. I know guys who would kill for one of Marty’s smiles. She has that effect on most men. Her smile is full of genuine warmth and affection; I can tell by the look in her hazel eyes.
“Hi, Jimmy,” she says. Her voice is soft and melodious; she speaks with a lilting British accent. From what I’ve heard, her family is from England. London, actually.
“Hi,” I reply, feeling about as articulate as your average mango. Then, mustering my last reserves of willpower, I focus my attention on Shakespeare’s play.
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,” I recite slowly, like a child learning to read for the first time, “creeps in this petty pace from day to day….”
I falter. I try to read further, but the urge to sneak a peek at Marty is irresistible. It is easier to stop an avalanche than to resist temptation. I put the book down again and I steal a furtive glance at her, hoping fervently she won’t catch me.
Suddenly, her hazel eyes meet mine.
I freeze, thinking that soon I will be flying across the classroom.
I close my eyes, expecting – what? A rebuke? A sarcastic laugh? A stiletto to the heart?
Nothing happens.
I open my eyes. Blink once. Blink twice. Look around.
The classroom is, well, gone. Instead of being in a room with thirty-five desks, a blackboard, a lectern, a teacher’s desk and a bookshelf, I am standing in the middle of what looks like the ballroom in a fashionable hotel. Confused, I look to my right to see if Marty is still there. Yes, she is still there. She gives me another one of those dazzling smiles.
“Come on, Jimmy, let’s dance,” she says. She extends her right hand invitingly and gives me a come-hither stare. In the background, a 1940s-style band like those led by Tommy Dorsey, Artie Shaw, or Glenn Miller, its members dressed in white tuxes, is warming up for its next performance.
I hesitate. I take her outstretched hand, but my feet feel as though they are stuck in industrial-strength concrete. “I’m not a good dancer,” I gasp.
“Come on,” she repeats softly, almost imploringly, “it’s a slow dance.” She tugs insistently at my hand. I don’t dare resist.
The band starts to play, and Martina pulls me closer to her. She places my left hand on her waist and holds my other hand gently but firmly to her side as we sway to the beat of the music. She is right; it is a slow dance. I feel as though I am Fred Astaire. The music picks up momentum. As we dance, my ears prick up as the bandleader segues from instruments to the vocalist.
Where time’s winds blow
That’s where you are;
Your bright eyes glow
Like distant stars.
My heart aches with pent-up yearning as I hold the girl of my dreams in my arms. I look into those wonderful eyes and a million questions rush into my fevered mind at that instant. I try to speak, but Marty places her index finger on my lips and gently shushes me with a Mona Lisa smile. “Don’t say a word,” she whispers. “Let’s just dance, okay?”
I nod meekly, and she gently lays her head on my shoulder. We dance as smoothly and flawlessly as if we have been dancing partners forever. As I close my eyes and follow the rhythm of the song, I feel Marty’s heartbeat and the slow rise and fall of her breathing – we’re that close.
Where time’s winds blow
Things cannot last.
We come and we go
Like ships that pass.
Love’s not always sweet, nor is it just “tomorrows”
It has sharp edges, barbs, and is full of sorrows
Yet we must love, and face the storm
When time’s winds blow…..
The music stops after a while, and we stand in the center of the ballroom, still in each other’s arms. I try again to collect my thoughts, to formulate a question, but all I can think about is her presence. Finally, I manage to whisper: “Marty, I….”
Just then, the school bell – irrelevant now because there were no real classes in session – rang loudly, shattering my dream like a bomb blast breaking a mirror.
I awoke with a start, hating the damned school bell with every fiber of my soul.
This passage—written so many years ago—became more than a fleeting creative exercise. It became a cornerstone of Reunion: A Story and, in turn, Reunion: Coda. Marty’s presence, Jim’s longing, the bittersweet collision of dreams and waking reality—all of it set the tone for the themes that still pulse through the duology.
Time’s winds blow, memories shift, and the stories we tell often return to where they began. This scene is where mine did.
A Certain Point of View, Too 
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