This is what I remember:

This is what I remember:

First, nervous fumbling in the front seat of a car in the parking lot in the dark.

Then, the steady rise and fall of our breath and his lips and his hands and what I wanted them to do.

And surreptitious touching when we were supposed to behave but needed to feel the other’s skin.

That’s all I want to remember. It is too painful to think about everything else. The things I believed were real. The words exchanged, the laughter, the little nods of encouragement… and he said “love” once? No, not that.

Because the only thing about it that was real was his skin and his lips and his hands and the want I felt when I looked at him. That was true. I do not want to remember anything else.

Author's note: I guess some of these are just going to be little blurbs of words and memories. This is autobiographical. The one before this was not. I won't tell you what's true or not anymore. I'll let you sort that out for yourself.