[My friend and I were going to do this blog once – 100 words (no less, no more) about summer romances. We both wrote a couple posts but the blog never came to fruition. Here’s one of mine, with pictorial:]
I tip-toed stealthily through the dew of suburban lawn. My flip-flops left paddle prints on the splintered deck stairs as I crept up to the glass door blinking from the reflection of the TV. It was a college summer. I was busy cheating on my boyfriend with another—the other whose head swung around from its post at the top of the couch cushion with my tiny, cryptic knock. His dad’s face in the door intercepted my almost seamless booty call. So close. “Why do you think it’s okay to trespass on our property?” Because your son’s fucking hot. That’s why.