Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda...
Once upon a time, in a land of long ago when hair was big and fashion was ghastly and there were still two Coreys, a girl loved a boy in the ridiculous way that girls who eventually become writers often do as teenagers—a largely quiet way that spawned lots of crap poetry.
I was 15 and didn’t know I was beautiful. He was 16 and had known for years by then that he was. Bad, bad medicine, as Bon Jovi would sing a couple of years later, but that summer belonged to Van Halen and coconut-scented tanning oil and a sultry August kiss that busted the chains off the crawlspace where I’d been keeping my libido. He put his hands on my thighs and his tongue in my ear and it pulsated like Poe’s tell-tale heart and as it ran off into the humidity slavering like Mr. Hyde, I knew instinctively, even at 15, that it would no longer settle for the buckets of fish heads I’d been feeding it.
And it was summertime … just the way Bob Seger sings it.
I spent high school stealing off with him on school nights as often as he’d let me, just like the rest of the girls. But we laughed a lot. And talked. And at some point, I pored over my magazines with a pair of scissors and a bottle of glue and I made him a collage. I didn’t see him again for more than 20 years.
And then, he “friended” me.
I was 15 and didn’t know I was beautiful. He was 16 and had known for years by then that he was. Bad, bad medicine, as Bon Jovi would sing a couple of years later, but that summer belonged to Van Halen and coconut-scented tanning oil and a sultry August kiss that busted the chains off the crawlspace where I’d been keeping my libido. He put his hands on my thighs and his tongue in my ear and it pulsated like Poe’s tell-tale heart and as it ran off into the humidity slavering like Mr. Hyde, I knew instinctively, even at 15, that it would no longer settle for the buckets of fish heads I’d been feeding it.
And it was summertime … just the way Bob Seger sings it.
I spent high school stealing off with him on school nights as often as he’d let me, just like the rest of the girls. But we laughed a lot. And talked. And at some point, I pored over my magazines with a pair of scissors and a bottle of glue and I made him a collage. I didn’t see him again for more than 20 years.
And then, he “friended” me.
collages live on forever. that's the take home message.