Personal Writing

I remember the first time I saw her. I was about seventeen years old. A few friends and I were hanging out, passing the lazy summer day with beer and laughter. The house was filled with the thick humidity of the mid-summer heat and the cacophonic sound of idle boys who hadn’t yet mastered their testosterone. Flanked by a couple girlfriends, she walked into the house and everything went silent. The only sound was a bird singing outside somewhere and the beating of my heart. There...