I could put in some killer montage here, showing us hanging out at clubs and playing more softball and walking in the park and talking for hours. Those things definitely happened. At the end of it, I could show us kissing in the moonlight, then cut to us silhouetted in a bedroom. Dylan could lift my shirt over my head…I could fade to black or kiss and tell…I’d like to be able to say he’d experienced some closure, and that he’d at least kissed me again, but I can’t. Well, I could, but I’d be lying. I don’t mind lying (as you know), but telling that one would just make me sad. The fantasies, though…Ahh…I’m blushing.Over the next month, Dylan and I continued in the same manner that has marked the majority of our interactions. It was as if he’d never taken me to a stream at night, held my hand on the bank, and told me he liked me. I now had five original Kiss Me Goodnight songs on my iPod, but Dylan hadn’t tried to kiss me again, not even on the cheek.A large manila envelope with a return address from a lab in Ann Arbor lay buried beneath file folders on my table.
