2003 was when the “gay devil” (as I referred to him at the time) made his first appearance inside my unprepared thirteen-year-old mind.
On a trip to Mexico that year, he sat perched on my shoulder while my family and I were out to lunch at an outdoor taqueria.
The girl at the table next to us had tan skin and brown-blond hair, and wore sunglasses and a spaghetti-strap black tank top.
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