We met in June. She’d busted me ogling high heels and cleavage at an after-hours party. “Sometimes I go for the obvious types,” I said. “But then there’s this thing.” I pointed first at her, then at myself. She blushed and I knew. July blew by, all bedrooms and heat and sweat and sex. Then the late August scene: “Who’s gonna say it first?” she said, pushed up on toes, arms wrapped around my neck, hair smelling like American Spirits, “Starts with ‘I’ ends with ‘u.’” I could feel heat against my back coming from the hood of the car.
Photo credit: Kate Farnady