Tastes change. There’s a bit of regret remembering how much I fawned over that scent he wore. It reeked of blueberries and aspartame, both of which I despise. Now at least, but maybe not then.

As he spritzed himself, he told me earnestly about the research he had done on blow jobs. I stood at the doorway of his bathroom thinking he could do with a haircut, telling him how thoughtful he was. He’s so young. We walked out of his house hand in hand, pleasantries and smiles. Later that night, he performed “the Twister” as well as he described. But his need to name it was the death knell. The next day, he talked about his love for Isabel Allende and I lowered my gaze. He told me I smelled good for the umpteenth time and then it was over.

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