Her hair once a red-gold that I could only call chestnut had turned the silvery-blonde that those with red hair always seemed to chose in defiance of the white that touched most of us. Wrinkles mapped the life she had led since we had last stood on this boardwalk when she told me that she was not happy and that she was leaving me with an empty apartment and a useless ring in my pocket.
Of all my memories on the boardwalk, those belonging to her kept me coming back. As fast as a speeding bullet, as fast as an airbag springs to save a life, as fast as a jet pierces the sky, a single memory of us unfolded. Of all the ones to select, my mind made the easiest association. Fifteen years old. Is there ever a more perfect and dreadful time of life? Comments are closed.
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