Summer 1989: Rocky Point Park
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.