A notch on the car seat is digging into my bare back. We never had *** in a car, in all the two years that we dated. This was our first time, which is funny, so much is over with. It is unoriginally steamy, but this makes the moon look even more muted, and I think about myself as the moon, and you as the sun, as we have always been and always will be in my head. I am intensely serene. I have just given the world’s greatest *******, and you are still kind of panting excitedly next to me. Your *** is still in my mouth. My *** has stained the seats. I am lying a little lower than you, due to the previous positioning of head to *****, and in this moment I am completely unconcerned with you at all. I am having a very silent and extremely imperative one-on-one dialogue with the moon.

And it is very strange, in one second I am looking up and the next I am looking down, it is years and years later, I am looking down at a table, I bought the table off Craigslist from some old lady in Vancouver who promised the leg only rattled occasionally. It didn’t. It rattled all the time.

I am looking down and some guy is standing above me, leaning against the wall. I remember choosing the paint of that wall, it is a light taupe. I remember feeling like my mom. I remember thinking that only a mom would look at the fascinatingly bright rainbow world of Home Depot paint swatches, and choose taupe. I had bought the table because I thought it matched the wall but I was somehow just now realizing that the colors didn't really go together at all.

He leans against the wall, and he looks familiar although I am simultaneously making him up. He has a little mustache, a shade of a beard. His hair is long, and just the right amount of messy, he is exactly what people would call ‘just that kind of guy.’ He is wearing a nice shirt, like he had just come home from work at a job that would pay enough for my parents to be happy. He has tired eyes. He has a kind smile. He looks like he would be a good father. He leans against the wall and I have an intense desire for him to sit down beside me.

I am about to ask him to when he makes this abrupt little laugh-chuckle sound that people in movies make when they’re about to give a particularly awful scripted line. “God, I dated some real airheads in high school.” He really does say the word ‘airhead,’ in my mind. He is that kind of guy. “What about you, babe?” he asks. He rubs his nose with his hand. “Did you have any hot high school lovers?”

And I am back in the car filled with provocative moonlight and innocent, angelic love that drips with that honeyed smell of ***. You have stopped panting. You have scooted your body down beside me so that it fits in a special space that over time has come to feel like an extension of my own body, where it had always been for so many sweet, pivotal, intimate moments of my life. I have a wider mouth now, and bigger eyes, but you still recognize me. I have a little extra skin around my waist too, but you don't seem to mind. Your hand rests humbly on my hip, and you look up at the moon with me. We are quiet for a while, and I cannot help but think that if the guy in the taupe room with the rattling table were there instead of you, he would have said something stupid.

I cannot thank you enough for letting us be simply who we were, in that unambitious and unassuming moment of time. And for bringing yourself to me when I wanted you to but didn't know how to ask, for never trying to be like the movies, and for not using stupid words like ‘airhead,’ for being both transient and infinite, equally and honestly, and for being the hottest ******* high school lover I could have ever asked for.