I can see flowers, wilting in the sun.

I can't see the pink on the nails of those little bubbly toes, poking through sandals showing off their pedicure, without being revisited by the memories of the summer of Candace.

I had been an ice cube fetus, drifting underwater, relishing the weight of a calculated free-fall, when she appeared by the poolside. I needed to investigate this slender salmon-colored wavy blur standing above me, pink like a pair of shrieking panties under a tartan-plaid schoolgirl's skirt.

It would be years, many long years, before I read about Humbert Humbert, before he and I compared notes on an obsession with sun-tanned Venuses of the Milo persuasion. Of course my arms folded on the concrete of the pool, supporting my chin; of course my eyes only 14, devouring her in pieces like cubes of raw steak. She had That Look that said, Medium Rare. Caution: juicy and pink. It was a feeling only a soul-sold screaming blues guitar solo could describe.

So my back slowly burnt and my front as well; I was a spit-hog and she was turning the skew. Those dark sunglasses, reflecting the stars of the tiny universes in the lenses, spoke for the both of us: This is going to be high school. I smiled; she smiled.

We went our separate ways.