Shawn

It was always pull off the sweater with you.

Take off the socks.

In the backseat.

Twister.

The right arm goes on the left door handle and the left foot is hooked on the rearview mirror.

I don’t remember your middle name.

I don’t remember your birthday.

It was always pull down your pants with you.

Take your earrings off.

On a hill, in a parking lot, in a parked car that you borrowed.

Chutes and Ladders.

We never cared if someone could be coming along soon like a police officer or a park ranger or a concerned parent.

I don’t remember how we met.

I don’t remember why I started or stopped dating you.

I remember the time I slammed my thumb in the door trying to hurry out of the car to get into the house before my grandmother knew that I was missing.

I remember the hickey you gave me on my neck that didn’t go away for weeks.

I remember seeing your sister in college a few times but didn’t remember then how I knew her.

I don’t think you and I ever had sex in a bed.

I don’t think that you and I ever had sex lying down.

Which is funny because didn’t you use to work at a hotel?

It was always can you come out tonight, with you.

After midnight.

Just one summer.

Life.

And we sat on the burning hot hood of your car and watched the stars in the park and promised to be together forever over a bowl of herbal tea.

Funny, now that your sister is married I don’t remember your last name.

But you’re still with me, Shawn, you really are.

Every time my neck hurts.