June 4, 2016:

She wanted to spit on me. I never understood where that came from, some stupid teenage hormonal surge, or perhaps unconsciously she really was angry with me. She was laughing, as though it were a great joke.

I was not. I told her definitively: spit on me, I'll never speak to you again.

She did. She looged a great drippy glob on my blue wimpy windbreaker. And that was that.

I kept my word. Angrily and stubbornly, I never spoke another syllable to her. We'd pass in the halls, I'd look her in the eye and keep silent. Even back in the neighborhood when she asked to join football games, I'd let her play but wouldn't say a thing to her.

I suppose she was my girlfriend. We kissed, played truth or dare, I felt her up a little bit. That was how we broke up.


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