Snapshots...

I was wearing the most hideous slippers the first time he kissed me. We had pretended to study for hours. The air was cold and I was fidgeting with the buttons on my coat. When his lips met mine I thought I would collapse it felt so warm, so sweet, safe. We were outside my dorm and when I walked back inside I did that giddy happy dance on the stairs.

He was so unhappy. The people who he lived with weren't easy to get along with. We spent entire afternoons snuggled under a feather duvet watching movies. They all were so sure that we were sleeping together, that it was a scandal. I remember the smell of... him. The way he always smells, like expensive.

We were drinking Jack straight from the stolen bottle as we trekked out onto the ritzy golf course. There were six of us and we huddled together laughing. We were the help. All the rich people were drinking champagne on the back deck. We leaned on one another, arms and legs draped over each other for fun. As the fireworks went off we agreed that we had the best seats.

We were on a boat in the middle of the Seine. The wind was whipping through our hair and he put his arm around me. I had a boyfriend, he had a girlfriend, but they weren't there, and he told me how he felt. It was romantic, it was just a moment.

His mom had gone out and his dad was mowing the grass. It was that perfect time of afternoon where the sun is low in the sky and rooms are lit with the orange light of dying light. We were staying at his parents' house for ten days. He walked into the room. I was caught off guard. He brushed a hand over my jaw and my neck. He pulled me close and held me. We made love without ever saying a word.

It was the first snow of the year. As light, fluffy flakes floated down from the sky the Texans got excited. Some of them had never seen snow. The next day the rich ones went and bought sweaters. It was back in the sixties two days later. They were disappointed.

We were escaping. The drives into the mountains were like miniature vacations. We wouldn't even get out of the car. It's how we got to know each other. Sometimes he wouldn't even tell me where we were going. We still go on those drives. He calls it "spending quality time together".

The air was still, and the cathedral was almost empty. Eerie light filtered into the windows. The three of us sat in a pew together, alone for the most part. Silently, we joined hands. When we looked into each others eyes one after another we all saw tears. We never talked to each other about it again. If I ever saw him again, I'd ask "Do you remember that day in Chartres?"

I was drinking in an Irish pub in Paris with my Daddy. He hated Paris, but I could tell he felt more comfortable somewhere where he could understand what people were saying. A look of pride came over his face when he came back from the bathroom and found me chatting in French with an older couple.

He was the original bad boy. We were only thirteen. Looking back now I still get that feeling, the flutter in my heart. He was quiet and brooding, and had that look like he might snap any second. He was never particularly nice to me, then all of a sudden one day he just opened up. He never had another girlfriend as long as I knew him, which wasn't long, he got expelled in the ninth grade, and by that time I was playing the perfect blonde cheerleader. I didn't have time for grungy boys with furrowed brows.

We had no idea where we were going, but we were on a quest for a liquor store. Then we found out that Flagstaff didn't have them, the liquor was all in the grocery stores. Under a sign that said "Health and Beauty" we were deliriously picking out vodka. "Don't Wanna Miss a Thing" came on the radio and he started singing. Loud. I started laughing so hard I cried, and he just sang louder. He has a terrible voice.

We were standing in line buying angelfood cake and something else. We were laughing hysterically at our complex joke about the complex needs of Swedish men. We got caught by the Swede in question, which only caused us to laugh harder. Which prompted him to ask us if we were drunk. Which we weren't. It was the first time anyone ever asked us that, certainly not the last.

The curtains pulled back. There was a huge twenty foot sign that read "FUCK"... We thought we'd never seen anything more clever. I can still hear him telling people "It was a HUGE flaming FUCK sign!"

We used to rollerblade, a lot. Maybe it had something to do with the cute guy down the street, maybe it was just summer. But we rollerbladed all the freakin' time. Up and down our super-suburban, cookie cutter street, where everything was the same and new. We grew up somewhere safe.

His shirt was yellow. It was a polo, and he had the collar turned up. He was leaning against the wall in my Mama's kitchen. She was washing dishes, and revealing that I liked him. In horror I could barely meet his eyes. But when I did they were smiling. That was before, before he turned into a monster.

I walked out onto the beach. The sand was bleached almost white, and the sun was blazing high in the cloudless blue sky. I looked behind me, then to the right and to the left. I was the only one. I spread out my towel and sat down. Though I knew through the jungle, not far behind me there were bungalows full of people, I sat there feeling for the first time ever that I might be truly alone. I liked it.