“Bobby, isn’t it funny that we used to date?”
All these years later, and the scar of my adolescence burns white hot in my chest. Her scent is the same… Is that perfume? Or does the smell of her skin alone still have the power to flush my face? A flash of blonde, an airy and condescending laugh, and we’re hugging. I think back to a whisper in my ear, a fuzzy blue sweater, and a pair of hands that are shaking just as bad as mine…
I want to ask her if it’s funny that she was my first love, but the taste of her lips fades in my mind, replaced by the taste of another cheap beer. Change clattering on the counter, a fake ID flashed. Then I’m hot, sweating through my silk Hawaiian shirt. People shove me in every direction; I let them push. The music crescendos, cacophonous; I tune it out. Fireworks burst and color the sky; I look down.
All I can feel are her nails ripping into my back, all I can hear is her breathing down my neck.
All I can see is that I never really moved on.
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