In the Porta-Potty outside of the Dodds Park soccer fields, Kaikou rested his forehead against the toilet seat.
Victoria once learned in a science class that no two things can ever really touch, that even when it looks or feels like two objects have made contact, there exists always an infinitesimally small space between their atoms, a molecular cushion of politeness or, as Victoria came to think of it, prudence.
Young Lolly had a case of echolalia—though neither Gram nor Lolly knew the term back then nor knew it was a condition, an ailment of sorts.
The first class I took when I got back was Theory of Football. It was a three-unit course, ninety bucks per unit, and it ran for sixteen weeks.
You make the first move, a vague email saying something to the effect that you’re around and bored, and if he’s free, you might be free, too.