by Stacy Bennett
I loved him. So Pa hated him. My James Dean, my rebel prince of Levi’s and Marlboros. My sixteenth summer was hot as hell – full of skinny-dipping, stolen kisses and beer.
Boy, did I love him.
We left his old Chevy, stalled out in the back forty while we shimmied through the fence, snagging our ratty tees on the wire, laughing like drunks. We were drunk, on love and impending freedom.
It’s probably still there, rusted-out like my heart. Lost in the tall grass, full of empty beer cans, cigarette stubs and disappointed dreams. I loved him; but things change.
Picture courtesy of Madison Woods borrowed from Friday Fictioneers circa 2012