It Was the Summer of Love

It was not a date.

I met with Emily just outside her apartment building where she hung out with the squatters and the musicians and we talked a little right there. I was kind of rough with her, crude, and she was crude back. This was the way we did it.

I touched her back. She was soft on the surface and hard below, like a cat. I whispered something in her ear and she leaned her head in so my forehead would touch her hair. I hoped she meant to do it because she longed for my touch as much as I longed for hers.

Then we talked to the park. She jumped on top of a bench, I jumped right behind her, she was making me loosen up. She sang a little, and waved her arms around but then she almost fell off. I caught her in time, put my arm around her waist. Her catlike waits. She laughed with joy. Or was it just a laugh?

We walked on through the grass for a little while longer but then we had to say goodbye. She had some friends to catch up with, I had work. She waved goodbye.

I remembered a scene from a novel where a couple of hippies were living in a park. Just playing music, eating good food and having sex. Balling was the word the narrator used. I knew that would never be my life.

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