He had a hole in his jeans.

I remember, fidgeting with it nervously the whole evening.
Hole, whole.
I can’t even remember his name.
(Now you know that’s a lie. His name escapes you no more than you escape yourself.)

Driving somewhere, someone’s house. Board games that make no sense.

Kisses you can’t escape. And then we slept, I on the couch and he on a camp bed.

Lost my socks, sometime in the night, lustful and half asleep. Don’t remember what we did, though he swears we didn't. I don’t know, I was asleep.

He drove me home the next day, and I fidgeted with the hole in his jeans.
(They weren’t jeans they were some sort of corduroy.)

Never did find my socks.