“Do you remember when we met?” I said. “First grade.” She giggled. “You were so loud! I remember you running all over the place and the teacher kept telling you to sit down. You threw dirt at me.” “And you cried because it got in your hair,” I said, scratching my head sheepishly. “I felt so bad, I hadn’t meant to make you cry.” It hadn’t been dirt either. It had been a yellow flower I found on the playground and roughly tore out of the earth, determined to bestow it to the prettiest girl I knew of. But childish immaturity took over, and in a panic, I’d thrown the thing at her instead.
