I started writing this story about eighteen years ago. I don’t remember the exact day. It wasn’t hot, and I was in Texas, so my best guess is April. That really isn’t important, except to demonstrate how my mind works. I have a very smart, very loyal, very untrained puppy running the control board.
OK, Texas. So I’m walking in the parking lot of my apartment that abuts a weirdly verdant part of the hot place. The Greenbelt. I’m not sure if that’s one word. I’m walking with who I thought I loved. Of course, her name. I remember where she went to high school. I remember how she lost her virginity. I’m not telling secrets. That’s not the point, except it is, to show you how my mind works. I know the concept of the unreliable narrator. There is a school for this stuff. I am digressing.
We’re walking in the parking lot that circles around the apartments I lived in at the time. And the idea comes to me. She put her hand in mine, interlocking fingers. Again, an unnecessary detail, but it was the impetus. My life is defined by women, or my relation to them. Or how my mind relates to them.