“When I was 16 I fell in love with a boy who drank wine. He wore glasses and spoke in poetry and lit my first cigarette for me. He was an actor who didn’t know how to ever stop acting, he took me onto rooftops in rainstorms and liked to twirl my hair in his fingers, said it reminded him of gold. He was graffiti and sunrises, worn jean jackets and the leathery smell of old books. I told him I was falling in love with him the night we snuck into a hotel pool, he laughed under his breath and took my face in his hands. “I am too,” he whispered, “but it won’t last.” He moved away at the end of the summer and sent me three letters. I still haven’t opened the last one. When I was 17 I fell in love with a boy who drank whiskey. He loved me back the way a child loves candy; greedy and clumsy. He was tall with coffee bean eyes and eyelashes longer than mine, he walked with his chin up and hands in his pockets. He kissed me ten minutes into our first date, he always kept one hand on me public. He was rippled water on a rainy day, broken pinky promises and chocolate ice cream. He was a good liar; made me forget that my skin was my own and not his. He had walls up that I spent months trying to scale. I made it over them once, then he was gone. When I was 19 I fell in love with a boy who drank beer. His eyes were the color of icicles on a sunny day and the first time he kissed me it was like a sigh of relief. He never let me leave him without a bear hug goodbye, he traced my freckles with his fingertips. He was late afternoon in the summertime, spiked vanilla coke and familiar radio stations. He was always warm and smelled like nutmeg and loved holding my hand in the car, my soft place to land. He left me at an airport with a kiss on the forehead and two glances back. During the second one he was smiling.”
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