They are one story down and one house over, in the bare-windowed sunroom where I see the mom and dad of the house talking with their friends some Sundays afternoons. It's the teenage girl and her boyfriend, though his hair is as long as hers. They are chaste but enthusiastic, nuns at a roller-skating rink. They keep coming up for air.
- I never made out with my high school boyfriend in my parents' house on a Tuesday night. I never had a high school boyfriend. And now it's too late.
- How many of our private moments are public? How many people are trying manfully (womanfully) not to laugh at us from their upstairs windows? How many people observe our passion -our pure, unguarded moments- and let the curtain fall?