I'd had kisses. Rushed, wet, tasting of beer, right out in the open. I'd messed around with a funny sophomore in my anthropology seminar and a shy journalism grad student, and while these nights were satisfying in their way, the pleasure didn't last past 2:00 am.I missed patience, the sweet, smoky taste of scotch. And the gut thrum of the forbidden.Instead of obscuring my memory of him, the hours I spent with boys at school slid to the edges and collected around it, like a frame.
-Amy Mason Doan
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