“Remember when is the lowest form of conversation.”

I’ve been taking long walks, thinking, smoking. This is not, surprisingly, productive in any substantive way. I had a few bouts of nostalgia as I passed the “gay little gazebo” where I sat uncomfortably as a clingy girl I no longer fancied clung. And, too, as I passed the high school parking lot; her car occupying a shady corner, and she and I inside, once upon a time, necking. Those were the days, finding secluded areas in which to neck, fondle, and occasionally get caught.

She had strange big eyes and tiny hang-down lumps for breasts. But she always tasted like Lifesavers.