I found her picture after my editor at Time approved access to various subscription-based adult websites as research for my hard-hitting expose on voyeuristic sex in social media, "The Fingered Keys." It was through one of these greasy portals that I rediscovered my old flame.
She was draped across a leather ottoman, completely nude and looking indifferent about it. Tattoos threaded her body, bordering on monotonous and I could count eight and a half visible piercings. I clicked through her photos and was enraged, then engorged and finally enraged again that she would entertain the thought of ending her life, especially given the spectacular way she filled out. Her sad face in every thumbnail resembled the neglected dogs in pet adoption commercials except instead of cages, she dangled out of bathtubs and beds, and also sometimes cages. I sent her a private message:
It's me, your seventh grade boyfriend who felt you up on the bus ride to Dinosaur National Monument. Listen, I probably owe you an explanation for abandoning you near the concession stand at the Snowball Dance. Julie Cevette offered to show me her right breast in the library stacks, and in my defense, I had no way to anticipate the thousands of right breasts I would see in the future. I offer this belated apology because I want to be certain I am not responsible for any of your subsequent life choices.