Sum­mer 1989: Rocky Point Park

Room Magazine - - CONTENTS - NI­COLE BREIT

Six­teen, the front seat of Curt’s car, an arm’s length be­tween us. We side-ache laughed ear­lier that night—light­headed lunge of ar­cade root beer. Catchy, ef­fer­ves­cent, those eight­ies jin­gles. We tell each other over and over again, I like the Sprite in you! Eye­lashes, fine blond fil­a­ments. Blue eyes poured from a pitcher. That re­li­able side-slope grin. And us? Ad­dressed in grade ten sci­ence class: when two wires of equal po­ten­tial touch there’s no spark be­tween them. Ge­orge Michael tells us not to worry about love—we just gotta have faith. The cres­cent moon hung from a string; salt lilac air. A kind of con­tact high. We couldn’t leave the dusky sky fall­ing. Would you rather be Michael from the Ban­gles or kiss her? No one asked, of course. The night tasted clean—a boy’s hair, a girl’s skin. The fu­ture still so tightly coiled.

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