for Jill Kelly He smoked, and that was good. You and I snuck peeks at old Cosmos in the library stacks when our parents thought we were learning about the Cold War, so we knew a man with an oral fixation was something to look for. And he fit all our dreams: dark, handsome, from a distance he seemed tall. When he played bass guitar in the school talent show, we swayed along in the front row, watching the muscles in his arms thicken and rise with every chord change. His hair swung damply along the sides of his face, and we sighed, and wished ourselves the sweat that weighed it down. When we discovered his locker, there was no question what came next. You stood lookout, shifting nervously while I wrapped my fingers around the lock, said a prayer, and pulled. Inside we found his jacket, black, and paint-splattered. You closed your eyes and backed away, but I leaned in, taking the scent of smoke and leather mixed together, learning him through my held breath. Then a sound around the corner - I ran, not waiting to warn you. I heard a gasp behind me, then suddenly we were running up the stairs, out the door, struggling between fright and laughter. We fell on the grass together, holding our knees in the cold hard air, and finally breathing in deeply, once, then again.
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