It was the summer of 1995, her name was Stacy. She was moving to Florida the next day so she mustered the courage to tell me she had a crush on me and wanted to hang out one time before she left forever. We spent all day together, holding hands, laughing, walking the streets of our home town. At some point in the evening, swinging on a porch swing watching the sunset, we had a heavy make out session. I was too young to know what to even do but I was 14 and in love. She had to be home for curfew so we parted ways and I ended up sleeping beneath an abandoned trailer in a large inner tube tire. I never saw her again.
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