B is for bench.

We sat on a park bench in the cascading twilight, a six-pack of Mickey's between us, the tips of your fingers gently scratching the back of my neck until I could feel my arms tingle with goosebumps. Your voice was soft, barely a whisper, forcing me to lean toward you as I hung on every tender platitude that escaped your flushed lips. You had arranged a serenade, four boys straight out of a J.Crew catalog singing The Everly Brothers. But you meant The Everly Brothers, and when the message was clear you left me alone on that park bench in the deepening nightfall.