XVI. I still remember mouthing Cheap Trick lyrics to you from across the great divide of the gear shift and center console… Mother told me, yes she told me, I’d meet girls like you. I should’ve paid attention, but I was a always a sucker for that shade of auburn and a heart that pumped out solid rock ‘n’ roll back beats. You were staring at me and I was getting lost somewhere in that hazy shade of eye shadow and the bright green at the center. I wasn’t quite jaded yet, but it wouldn’t take long after you. You never were much for letting me stare, worried that I’d start to see the things that never were there. How could I ever question a thing when I found those lips were full of concentrated lightning, twenty-thousand volts from her mouth sent my blood racing to… well… and she knew just what she was doing. Just out of her teens, she swore she was grown, a woman beyond her years, and she fucked like that was the stone cold truth. Her rhythm put the best to shame, she was loud, vulgar, carnal; guitar and rebellion crafted perfectly into curves and hips, and goddamn, that grip. But her love was more akin to that of a child, shallow and fleeting, easily won, easier lost.
XVII. It’s safe to say I still think about her occasionally, if we’re playing fast and loose with the definition of the word. She crosses my mind more than the number of miles between us, but to tell her that would be foolish. The sun seems to be a better medication than anything else she’s tried, it’s fascinating to watch her slip the skin of cynicism for a smile full of sunlight and soul. I tell myself I keep her number buried away, that one day when the rain just won’t stop, when the cold drills through skin down into my bones, that I’ll work up the courage to call and say what I couldn’t before. When the road forked she was standing plainly on one side, and my recklessness got the best of me. I charged headfirst down the opposite path, putting the first few miles between us. Now that they’ve grown exponentially, I just hope she still thinks about me.
XVIII. She was a dangerous gamble from the start, and I’ve always been foolish enough to make stupid bets. An ex of a friend, any sort of relationship with her would’ve turn our social circle into Salem, and we’d have been shunned or burned at the stake before we could explain ourselves. We kept the secret well, the only evidence covered by clothing; jagged, red scratches down my back, and yellowed bruises dotting her thighs. The social scene were trying desperately to reunite her and her jilted lover while I tried desperately to make her come without waking her roommate. There was success on all sides. I put my heart on the stake and let it burn in secrecy.