[ 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 ]	I can’t look him in the face when he rolls over and tells me he loves me. I turn my face to the side and stare at my stuffed animals lining my bed. The poor things had to witness the whole dreadful experience. He kisses my cheek and I just want him out of my bed. My heart is racing and I need a cigarette. I think about the joint in my nightstand. I should have smoked it. Maybe that would have made it better. Maybe it was him. Maybe he just wasn’t any good. Well, it was his first time too. Maybe it was me. Maybe I did something wrong. He asks me how I’m doing and I still can’t look at him. I can’t mouth the words I am dying to say: get out of my room. He’s a nice guy. I do love him. I love spending time with him, talking with him, kissing him. He didn’t pressure me into anything, even though he is four years my senior, which wouldn’t matter if we were older but since I am only fourteen, it makes a world of a difference. He’s a good person and I love him, but I can’t look at him and I just want him out of my bed. It’s been ten years and I can still play out this scene accurately in my head, as if it happened a week ago, yesterday, just happened, still happening. I should have known then. I should have known that things would never be the same; that it wasn’t about monkey bars and climbing trees anymore. I should have seen the black and white blur. per•ver•sion 1 : the action of perverting : the condition of being perverted 2 : a perverted form; especially : an aberrant sexual practice especially when habitual and preferred to normal coitus I drove back to the house and parked in the alley. I gazed up at the apartment building across the way. It looks just as familiar as it did nine years ago. The yellow bricks are still faded; the gangway still looks like it’s falling apart. The only thing that changed was the third floor window. It has curtains over it now. The girl across the alley leaves her blinds open. She does this on purpose. I know, because she undresses looking out the window. It seems like she’s looking at me, but I know she’s not. She can’t see me sitting in my darkened room watching her unbutton her blouse and unzip her pants. She does this every night at nine o’clock. Nine o’clock exactly. And every night, I’m sitting on my bed in my darkened room waiting for her. This is what I look forward too every night: the dark haired beauty across the alley undressing at the end of the day.