But I saw the fire in Amy’s eyes—a fire I might have been too young to see when we were teenagers, if it was there at all. I’ve felt her fingers inside of me and her tongue between my legs. And how can I possibly run away from that, no matter what she has to say?
Instead of going to bed after the last guests have left, I borrow my mother’s bike, because I’m too tipsy to drive a car, and cycle to Amy’s house.
It’s late and the air has cooled off, but an alcohol blush burns on my face and I have the memory of my afternoon with Amy to keep me warm.
When I arrive at Amy’s house, everything is quiet and dark. For an instant, I wonder if it’s appropriate to disturb her night rest, but I tell myself she’d want me to. I park my bike against a bunch of low shrubbery and, not wanting to ring a lo
