I knew her father was a physician of some sort, a doctor of the bone or blood. I knew he grew cannabis when she was a child—I’ve seen the photographs. I knew she had a nose-job the first year of college. An accident involving a drunken fratboy and mug of beer. I knew she was working in a furniture factory in order to see how the common folk did it.

I knew her likes: big men (fat or muscle—it didn’t much matter). I knew her likes: drinking wine before work, before heavy machinery. Talking about sex. I knew her like I knew no other before or since. I knew her when I wore overalls. I knew her on the roof of her house on the corner of 15th and Patterson, and of course it wasn’t her house. I knew.