(From page 59:)

That place beneath the bleachers where that girl Jan allowed you to touch her breasts. You kissed her hard because you hardly knew her, and she let you because she was a clarinet-playing band geek who would not realize her own beauty until maybe four years later, ironically, at a Catholic college in Boston. You remember being thrilled and delighted by the experience, yet you never called her again, and managed to avoid her in the high school’s hallways. Those bleachers were eventually deemed unsafe and replaced by ones that provided no underneath access.

(From page 167:)

That poorly lighted pub in the small main street of that little town in Scotland, where you hitchhiked that time. There was that fascinating blonde woman playing footsie with you beneath the crowded table, playing it perfectly straight-faced the whole time, right up until she handed you that paper with her name and number, and gave you a kiss out back where no one could see and you swore you would always remember that night. You carried that paper around in your wallet for five years, proof that the impossible does occur.

(From page 293:)

That old discount mall, anchored by a cheap liquor store. There were various no-name stores that offered bounteous bins of clothes at off-rate prices. Much of the mall’s wares seemed picked-over, as did the place itself. It was always busy with folks eager for bargains, crowds of strange ethnicities, from Eastern European extreme religious sects to hordes of various Asians, all gathered in unity for what could be had for less. There was a roomful of colored balls where parents would drop off their kids for birthday parties. Once, one of your own kids would actually go missing in that mall for a seemingly eternal ten-minute stretch. They found him hiding inside a display rack of discount skirts, blissfully unaware of the anxiety he caused. That mall has since been razed and replaced by a Target.

Bio: Gary Glauber