On your back you feel the pricks of a thousand needles, stabbing through the fabric of your designer T-shirt. His firm mouth searches over your tight lips. You relent. A kiss. Thick, sweet honey tongue swirls slowly downward while yours tentatively pecks and darts, unsure in the piss-warm pool of extra saliva.

Hands you don’t know well thrust against your jeans; buttons are undone, zippers slip too easily down. Then you’re doing it. With him. Love wrought. A lousy gulp. He moans; the unfulfilled groan is yours, lucky girl. Maybe next time. The sticky, sappy puddle on the ground—child denied—dries as you arrange your clandestine selves.

Back to the bleachers, since your high school football team might win. You should at least know the score. The clapping annoys you; so does your little sister when she asks, “Where were you?”

“Losing my religion.”

“Mom’s here.”

In mirrors, you don’t see a single thing different. You even feel the same. The shirt, though; there’s no saving that. Shit. Your mother bought it. What if she asks where it is? On loan. Yeah, Alicia took it. That’s it.

Small town girl grows up. Graduates, tucks several classes short of a degree into her brain, enters the sky-rising columns of the city. Branches into another person who demonstrates products at grocery stores and works hard to be paid so little. She grows into sadness under starless nights. Defeated, to hometown she returns. No Pottery Barn here; pottery sheds and horse barns, yes.

Then, it’s ten, fifteen, twenty years later, walking with a new husband along a ridge lined with tall red pines on either side. A natural cathedral, not very wide, where you’ll kiss his lips but feel that boy’s. He’ll be somewhere else kissing Lord knows who. Guilt will bring you to your knees. You’ll screw under these trees, at this moment, in this forest—an attempt to erase all of those who came before.