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You'd go to Friendly's, order a milkshake, park around the back. Three or four
guys in the car with you, waiting. Then the girls showed up, their cars smaller
somehow, gum, cigarettes, barrettes scattered on the dash, birch inchworms
coating their windshield. "Hey," you'd say. Then out in the darkness leaning
against the car, the engine warm, the painted lines on the parking lot smooth
under your bare feet, and you'd notice she has painted her toenails, maybe for
you.
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©1999
Joseph Monninger and Nerve.com
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