Ten years ago.
Friday August 31, 2001
Walking along the Charles River. Roughly twenty-four hours before, the dyke and my best friend’s sister had been smoking the pot I wasn’t really interested in and hadn’t, I don’t think, been the reason they’d called me over in the first place.
Do I remember the sex? Not specifically. Not in any detail. Not the first time we’d done it; not the several other times in between. What I do remember: odd, isolated moments. Taking turns with my best friend’s sister nibbling at the dyke’s breasts. Watching them roll across the floor, giggling with the effects of the pot. My best friend’s sister voguing in the dyke’s leather jacket before it all really began. Kissing the dyke that first time. (I’d had a crush on her for, what, three years?) Leaning back against the wall that last time, the dyke leaning back against me, kissing me, as my best friend’s sister licked her cunt, making her shiver in my arms, and looking down to meet my best friend’s sister’s eyes—this look, this little, knowing look passing between us as the dyke came.
Then, after, ten years ago, roughly, walking along the Charles River. My best friend’s sister turning suddenly, her face ugly. Spitting something. I can’t remember what, for the life of me. Not specifically. Just this sudden, overwhelming shift—the faces, suddenly becoming a vase—the dyke, stopping in her tracks—
And a month later, I was two hours away, in another part of the state.