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I’m in love with the girl who lives down the hall. We talk about sex while we jog in the park along a trail that hugs the shore of this pond shaped like a dumbbell, that’s really two ponds linked by not much of a creek. She’s no saint. She likes guys. She likes sex. She tells me. Between breaths. She’s had a lot of. Men. If she gets enough beer in her some lucky. Bystander will get to take her home. But she doesn’t do one. Night stands. If she fucks a guy once. She prefers to fuck. Him twice. She’s not easy. She says. She’s a woman. A chick. Who knows how to get. What good girls aren’t. Supposed to. Want. Like right. Now she’s doin’ this guy. And it’s not. Serious but. He’s her sort. Of boyfriend. Wait. She says. While he’s away she wouldn’t. Feel right. We kissed that. Time I know. But just give it. Time she says. Wait a few. Weeks. After he gets. Back she’s sure he’ll get. Bored. And dump her. Then she’d feel. Less bad. You under. Stand. She tells me. Same time to. Morrow? She wants to know. That was good. A good run. She decides. I feel. Great how. ‘Bout you?