Dana

I was seven years old and ready to cross the line with her. we didn't just get in the sack, we put on rubber, there were rubbers for everyone. Thirty people, children, students, in all, plus the voyeurs. She was bound, strapped for me. I saw the grassy field and felt my anticipation grow. All the boys and girls paired off and it started. We were pumping hard from the get-go, a machine with three legs. We may have finished before the others, the watchers may have given us the prize. I don't remember much except being so close to her body, arms around shoulders, hips against hips, so excited and nervous, the pounding heart, the ragged breathing, gasping and sweating when it was over.

Jenny

Saturday afternoon gives way to night and Jake wonders who she is. It's a small table; He didn't catch the introductions. Maybe it's not that kind of party. Jake says, "She lived across the street. I never met her."

"What was her name?" she asks.

"I never met her. She was almost a year older than me and had dark hair and a sister. I suppose she had parents; most do."

The sun turns down. "Did she ever see you?"

"I can't remember. I think she hugged me. I might have hugged her."

"What happened?"

"She moved away. I almost saw her later, twice. On the phone. They thought it was love and tried to match us. I wouldn't call her. We weren't more than seven, probably not even that old. She died, or will die; most do."

She isn't interested. "You never forget your first."

"First what? I don't remember my first step, first word, first day of school, first book I read. I'd have to think very hard to remember what I had for lunch." Jake raises his glass. "To memories."

"To memories." Clink. "What are those?"

"Burning my hand. Twisting my shoulder. Cracking my rib. Pissing my pants, twice. What's your name again?"

"Did you say something?"

"Nothing yet."