She used to peer at him over her milk straw at lunch. Sitting grimly in the bleachers, she wore his number scrawled across her t-shirt. He had this good, bad, creepy awareness of her that left him feeling special and tainted all at the same time. There was a thrilling repugnance in passing near her. She was laughed about and then mostly forgotten.
Unsmiling, she eyeballed him over her Mojito during the school reunion.
Looking older and odder, flabby, married, and smelling like cigarettes, he fucked her in the back of Classroom 224.
Now, wildly grateful, he welcomed that special tainted feeling.