i don’t even know her name

Image from Zolotareva Elina, Bigstock.com

The first time I met her she was chasing a boy up a mountain, barefoot, with a ripped tanktop showing the sort of b-cup bra that doesn’t scream “sex” so much as “my mom still shops with me.” She was wild-eyed and tangled-hair, sixteen years old, with a bloody knee and the scent of the everclear she’d pounded like water on a hot day coming from her laugh, her pores. The boy was blonde, blue eyed, with a wide smile and a bandana. The five year…