She said, "Weird.'' Then slipped her shirt off over her head and began talking about something totally unrelated to our immediate situation. She reached behind her back to unhook herself; as if it were not weird at all. Like it was scripted. It wasn't weird to me, but at least striking enough to where I quit listening to what she was talking about in favor of studying her naked torso for the first time.

She sat in my lap, facing me, glowing white in the dark of my small living room. Her mouth tasted like beer. I might have minded had my mouth not tasted the same. "This was very unexpected.'' She said. I agreed.

I had long since put away the idea of being with her. At one point I'd wanted it badly, based on reasons that were honest and right. Which is rare for me.

"I think of you often when I think of being with someone for real,'' she once told me, a long time ago when I'd tried to kiss her on some dirty beach and she pushed me away. "Sometimes I do want to have someone to share things with.'' My stomach shuddered when she said that. Because, until that declaration, I didn't know she had a plan, I didn't know she knew what she was doing. I had been safe in the assumption that she was just young and blind. I didn't know there was structure behind her passing me by in favor of running, without care, through fields and fields of itchy wild oats, stopping only to lie down for other men. Handsome men. Men who excited her by not caring.

I tried to blame her and see her as shallow for choosing the beautiful and apathetic. But really, I never could blame her: biology rules: I understand. Still, I couldn't take her hurting my ears and, surprisingly, my heart, with constant talk of her love life; from which I was excluded. I did not kill off our friendship. But I let it go like an outdoor cat.

After six months apart, she was sitting in my lap, reminding me of the rules. "I'm not looking to date you.'' She said, sweet but blank and more than a little drunk.

"I know,'' I answered. It was easy not to worry.

My only worry was that the scab under my bottom lip would repulse her when her mouth brushed over it. But she didn't seem to notice or mind.

I'd been hiding it all evening as we got drunk and ran around the local college campus with open bottles of beer that could have gotten us arrested. I kind of liked the idea of being in jail with her. And the weather was gentle: the first hint of my last Florida winter.

I didn't say much and made no eye contact; pretending my mind was on other things, other people, other women. I walked fast a few feet ahead of her. I didn't want her too see my gross scab and I didn't want to be too friendly. I was acting: which I am vehemently against. "What happened to the 'fun Michael'?" She asked from three feet behind me, laughing. I don't remember my answer.

The more we drank, the more she touched my arm to emphasize certain things she said while supporting the conversation. We finished our six-pack, and drove home in the truck. She moved to my knee for emphasis. I still kept my eyes on the road.

There were moments of real beauty later on. I understand none of it. She reiterated again and again how pleasantly surprised she was with the experience. I still don't know how to take that.