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The First Time I See Her, She�S On One Knee, Tying Her Shoe In The A-Lot, Next To A Lamppost, And I�M Stepping Out Of This Guy�S Car With Thirty Dollars In All Fives. He Says Something While I Do This, But I Don�T Pay It Any Mind And He Drives Away. | |
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The girl looks up at me and smiles. | |
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She’s supercute and shit. | |
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I stuff the cash in my pocket. | |
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She’s wearing a jean skirt with a Blondie patch, a yellow-and-blue paint-splattered shirt with the sleeves cut off, and black Chuck Taylors with no socks, the shoelaces obviously untied, but she’s getting them there. | |
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This is the order I always take people in. | |
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Face. | |
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Clothes. | |
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Features. | |
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She has oily black hair that’s cut into a she-mullet with two lines shaved into the right side of her head. She’s got freckles and decent-sized tits and a slim waist from what I can tell. It’s late in the summer but she’s pretty pale, just like I am, and her eyes are big and brown. | |
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She stands up as I’m lighting a Pall Mall 100, and I notice that her knees are scuffed red. | |
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Features. | |
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"You got one of those for me, man?" she asks, her voice low and raspy, like she’s been drinking and smoking for years, even though she only looks maybe sixteen. | |
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"Sure," I answer, sliding out a second one and handing it to her. | |
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"Give me a light, too, please?" | |
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"Yeah." I hold the lighter to the end of her cigarette. "What are you doing out here anyway?" | |
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"Enjoying this amazing weather." | |
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I make a face. "Huh?" | |
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"Come on, man. I just got dropped off, like you." | |
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"Shit," I say, tucking the smokes and lighter back into the pocket of my sleeveless red-and-black-plaid shirt. "How old are you?" | |
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"Why do you care?" | |
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"I don’t really. You just look a little young to be doing what you’re doing." | |
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She shrugs and rolls her eyes. "And you look a little too much like a boy who digs chicks to be doing what you’re doing." | |
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"I need the money," I say. | |
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"That bad you need the money?" | |
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I glance quickly at the track marks on my arms then back to her. "That bad," I go. | |
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"I see." | |
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Pause. | |
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"Is that heroin you shoot into them holes?" she asks. | |
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"Kinda." | |
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She laughs. "Kinda, dude?" | |
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"It’s mostly straight coke, sometimes speedballs. Those are my poisons." | |
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"That shit will make you go crazy." | |
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I take a drag and exhale. "Fucking life will make you go crazy. This just makes it more interesting." | |
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She grins and smoke flows out of her nostrils. "I get it." | |
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"So how old are you?" | |
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"How old do you think I am?" | |
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"Sixteen." | |
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She shakes her head. "Wrong." | |
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"Higher or lower?" | |
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She turns her thumb down. | |
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"Fifteen," I say. | |
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"Wrong again, man." | |
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"Fourteen?" | |
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She nods. | |
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"Jesus," I say. "Ain’t you" | |
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She cuts me off. "Ain’t I what?" she snorts. | |
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"Ain’t you really superyoung to be kicking it around the A-Lot?" | |
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"Not the way I see it," she answers. | |
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"And how’s that?" I ask. | |
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"Walk with me." She smiles, winks, then tilts her head to the side. "Come on, now. I don’t bite on the first meeting." | |
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• • | |
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We walk back toward the center of town. The sidewalk is cracked and weeds are growing everywhere. It’s muggy and the sun is shining into our faces, making us both squint. | |
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I curse myself for not bringing my shades. Take a drag. "So tell me, then. . . ." | |
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"How I see it?" she asks. | |
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"Uh-huh." | |
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"I love fucking and I love sucking dick. So why not get paid to do what I love more than anything in the world besides buying clothes and records?" | |
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"So you do this because you like to?" | |
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"Yessir." She’s smiling big. "I do it because I like to fuck dudes and sometimes bitches, and the money gets me the records and clothes." | |
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Pause. | |
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My eyes become fixated on her. A surge of rage, jealousy, and passion slams through me like a tornado, and I want her for some reason. I want her so bad it aches. I’m pissed at the guy who dropped her off for getting to touch her and have her touch him. | |
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And I don’t even know her. | |
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She makes a face. "Why are you looking at me like that?" | |
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"Like what?" I ask. | |
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"Like you want to fuck me and then hate me right after for it." | |
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A bug flies into the side of my face, and I swipe at it. The emotional twister dissolves into nothing just as suddenly as it arrived. My heart slides back into place. | |
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And I go, "Whoa, there. Whoa." | |
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"That’s what your face looks like, man. I’m just being super-duper honest." | |
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"I’m sorry," I say. "That’s not what I’m thinking or anything." | |
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"So you don’t want to fuck me?" She’s grinning again. | |
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My cheeks flush, and I wipe the sweat from my forehead. "No, that’s not it." | |
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A truck filled in the back with tan kids in dirty jeans and dirty shirts flies by us. | |
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"Whores," a couple of them scream out. | |
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She flips them off. "Faggots!" she yells back. | |
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I take the last drag of my cigarette. "I don’t want to hate you afterward, and I know I wouldn’t at all. I swear to you that I wouldn’t." | |
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This admission seems to throw her off. The truth shakes her for just a second, and I catch that beautiful grin again, flashing just for me. Her guard coming down just ever so slightly. Her eyes get even bigger-they sparkle-and she winks, the last drag of her smoke flowing through her nose as she says, "That’s nice to know." | |
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The moment passes, but my feelings of blatant attraction and love at first sight whip through me even harder. "Thanks for saying that." | |
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"You’re fucking welcome, man," she says back. | |
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• • | |
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The street turns from old pavement into faded red brick as we cross the Arch, the small bridge that stretches over the small creek that divides Beaver Falls into two. | |
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Some kids are partying under the bridge. I hear them laughing and their boom box blasting out Guns N’ Roses, and I wonder if I know any of them. | |
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"I hate the kids who hang here," she says. | |
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"Why?" | |
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"I think they’re a bunch of idiots." | |
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"I hang out down there sometimes." | |
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She looks at me, and her fucking eyes are sparkling. | |
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"Am I an idiot?" I ask. | |
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"I don’t even know you, man." | |
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"Based on this conversation," I say as we get over the bridge and it turns onto Main Street. "Do you think I am?" | |
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"You haven’t said anything stupid. That’s pretty darn cool. Usually guys say stupid shit to me right away." | |
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"Like what?" | |
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"Like, ‘Hey, cutie. Those lips would feel great around my dick.’ Or, ‘Yo, girl, that ass needs worked out. I can be your personal trainer.’" | |
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"Shut the fuck up," I go. "No way dudes are that lame." | |
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"Oh, hell yeah, they are. That stuff really gets thrown my way a lot. It’s fucking pathetic." | |
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"Well, that ain’t me." | |
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The grin turns into a full-on smile that goes from ear to ear. "I like that." | |
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"But I still hang out under the Arch sometimes." | |
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She shrugs. "You’re just the exception, then." | |
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"It really can be fun." | |
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"They were playing fucking Guns N’ Roses," she goes. "I can always get behind that." | |
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"You’re a GN’R fan?" I ask. | |
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She shoots a look right at me. "You need me to answer that? Do you?" | |
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"I think you just did," I say. | |
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"Good. Love me some of that old GN’R." | |
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"Me too." | |
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"Obviously, man." | |
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We continue down Main Street. Shops and bars and hardware stores. Two small diners. A pizza place with video games and cheap beer. An ice-cream shop. And Larry’s Chicken Shack, with my apartment right above. | |
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Cars line the street. It’s just after one. Lunchtime. | |
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We stop at the intersection of Main and I-22, the road that runs through town. | |
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We glance tough at each other. | |
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"I live up there," I say, turning and pointing at Larry’s. "Right above the chicken place." | |
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She nods. "Does your place smell like chicken?" | |
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"Sometimes it does." | |
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"I don’t think I’d like that, man." | |
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"You get used to it." | |
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"Could be you can. But maybe not." | |
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"Well, it’s a good thing you don’t live there, then." | |
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Pause. | |
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"Where do you live?" I ask. | |
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She turns and points west down I-22. "About a mile down there, like a block from Frank’s Bar, in an apartment with just my mom and whoever her boyfriend is for that week or month." | |
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"That brown building? I’ve walked by there before." | |
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"Yeah, it ain’t much." She shrugs. "But it’s home, ya know. It’s the one I’ve spent most of my life in." | |
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"You think that’s the description of home?" | |
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"I don’t know for sure. But it seems like the right one." | |
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Silence for thirty seconds as our eyes wander away. | |
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I take a deep breath. | |
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"Say," I start. "Why aren’t you in school? Didn’t classes start a week ago or something?" | |
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She runs a hand through her hair. "Yeah. But I don’t need to go." | |
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"Why’s that?" | |
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"I don’t like it so much." | |
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"And your mom doesn’t make you?" I wonder aloud. | |
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"Nah. She says it’s my choice. She says I can do what I want if I’m happy with it, and school don’t make me happy." | |
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I smirk. "Wish my parents woulda thought like your mom." | |
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"Everyone says that." | |
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"Cos it’s fucking true." | |
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Cars whiz by on I-22 to leave out the other end of the town. | |
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Then she says, "Well . . . I should be getting home now. My work is done for the day." | |
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I hate the way she says that so casually too. It makes me a little insane. It really does. Because she’s so adorable and little and sweet, yet nothing about working at the A-Lot is even close to fucking cute. But there’s something about her. A toughness. A playbook. An attitude that somehow makes it okay, I guess. It does and it doesn’t, and I’m not trying to let her go just yet so I ask: | |
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"What are you gonna do at home?" | |
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"Probably drink some beers. Play some records I got yesterday." | |
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"What records did you get?" | |
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" Queens of Noise by" | |
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"The Runaways," I snap, cutting her off. | |
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Another big smile. "Fucking right," she says. | |
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"What else?" | |
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" Happy Sad by Tim Buckley." | |
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"Cool shit." | |
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"And Funky Divas by" | |
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"En Vogue," I say, interrupting her again. | |
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"Wow. You know your shit. I really fucking like that." | |
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"And you got some great fucking taste." | |
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She winks. "I’ve got great fucking everything, man." | |
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I laugh. "Is that so?" | |
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She winks again. "It sure fucking is." | |
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My heart is so on fucking fire for her right now. | |
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But then she says, "So, anyway, I’m gonna head back." | |
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This statement makes me tense up and ache all over again. I don’t want her to leave, but I ain’t trying to see her tonight either. I have band practice. But, still, something about being apart from her suddenly makes me nervous and paranoid. | |
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"You okay, man?" she asks. | |
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"Totally. Just thought of something." | |
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"What’s that?" | |
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"I don’t know your name." | |
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"I don’t know yours, either." | |
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I hold my hand out and she shakes it. "Alexander," I say. | |
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"That’s such a cute name," she says. "Cute fucking boy with a cute fucking name." | |
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"Why, thank you." | |
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Our hands drop back to our sides, and she goes, "Alexander, my name is Patti. Patti Smith." | |
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"Patti Smith? Really? Is that really your name?" | |
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"Yup. It’s the one I go by, anyway." | |
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I laugh. "I like it." Pause. "Actually, I love it," I finish. | |
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"Thanks." | |
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"Well, Patti Smith. I guess I’ll see you around, then?" | |
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She nods with a hint of excitement. "Yeah," she says. She stops and looks back over her shoulder. "See ya around, Alexander." | |
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She giggles, and I wave bye and cross the street. When I get to the other side, I look back, and Patti Smith, she’s looking back at me. | |