...eyes the color of sherry that's left at the bottom of the glass long after the guests have left...
Sherry: she'd be your best friend and then make out with the crush you confessed to her at a slumber party after everyone else had fallen asleep. Did I learn the art of brow plucking at the vanity mirror in her parent's bedroom? Or were we both too busy flipping through the Penthouses she dug out from under their matching California King on the other side of that shag carpeted room?
Whatever happened to Sherry? I remember roller coaster rides, skinny dipping, noticing how slivers of blue florescent light seemed to hold the under sides of the boardwalk slats together while I kept lookout.
She called me once while I was away at college. I don't know how she found me. I'd buckled back down by then, well on my way to becoming an upright citizen.
Do you remember me?
I wanted so badly to say yes! Yes of course I do. How could I forget you? My life before we met and now since we lost touch has been so stultifying, so numbingly dull.
You alone were some kind of conduit, a diviner, a genie, a wizard, a witch, a channeller of electricity. You wielded some sort of magic power that was capable of turning the ordinary day into the most sublime of adventures. A mere phone call was a portal into other worlds, other lives, to people we never would have met, conversations that never would have taken place if you hadn't opened a phone book, blindfolded, run your finger down a random page and dialed. You were Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth, a suburban housewife.
And because you'd heard that skinny dipping was better than just swimming but best only at night, I was hippened to the fact that fences existed simply to be climbed over...
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