"Hey little boy, would you like a ride?"

I've been standing in front of the building on a cloudless Summer noon, remembering my girlfriend exclaiming over the first time she saw me standing with the sun reflecting off my hair, trying yet again to recapture that look, that moment, that reaction.

So the sudden touch of humor throws me off requires a mood-appropriate change of plan, makes me think before I react. "I don't know," I respond, carefully, little-boy like, peering into the car window where she sits, hair long, straight, blond, slender pale shoulders uncovered by a pink tank top, legs encased in almost see through white slacks, delectable, gorgeous, must keep it under control, "do you have any candy?"

I've pushed the right button. She likes to play as long as she has an illusion of control. I can see the cheerful excited evil flit behind her eyes. "I've got something better than that."

Hand on the car door handle as though I'm ready to jump her, say "I bet you do" and slide in all smooth beside her, but not yet, still cautious, still in character, for at least one more exchange. "You promise? Is it something to play with, or something to eat? I want a taste first."

"Not until you get in the fucking car."

I'm in. I'm beside her, face level with hers like I'm about to kiss her, but I don't, because now I'm in control, hand above her hip on the fabric of the pink tank top. "I'm in the fucking car now drive down to the other end of the parking lot so we can play."