College town bar with cheap beer and breastful cheerleader freshman. Yeah, let’s set the scene. Blonde girl: over-plucked eyebrows arched like her small back, California laughter and gold bronze skin. I’ll call her Britanny. Booby Britanny.

“I think I’m in love with you.” She says, “I’m sorry.” For falling in love is the damnedest curse. A blessing? Not even a mixed one. The dreadful shower of self-indulgent thought, the awful drive ridden with romantic worries, the lonesome nights bright only with promise of a soft, arched back. Lovers waste youth pursuing hearts and waste away lamenting broken ones. Falling in love is without warranty, no safety net of a backup human. The pleasures are deep and vertiginous. A kiss lasts on the lips then lingers uselessly in complacent minds. Words expel from the same kissable mouths, linger in the same void between minds without entering – but she whispers, so gently as if speaking air, “You too.”