The First Leaving

The other day on the radio I heard that song from Pretty in Pink. You know the one.

I touch you once.

I touch you twice.

And the kill shot: You always said we'd meet again, someday.

I'm back to revising THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES and nineteen years old again in my head, and that line might summarize eighteen, nineteen, twenty and twenty-one for me. A series of leavings. Wondering if we'd stay friends, stay in love, stay in fucking touch.

Watching people on whom we hung the future smile...