I can still remember the scent of the perfume you wore that night. It was fruity, with floral undertones. I don't remember the name of the perfume, but I do remember it was one of those brands that girls your age always bought. Girls your age liked to wear the brand on their clothing, too: "Juicy" in bedazzled cursive on the butt of their sweatpants. I liked it when you wore those sweatpants.
"It shows off your curves so well," I would whisper in your ear between soft kisses. You loved my compliments as much I loved to stroke your ego.
"You are so nasty," you would reply with. "Mr. Friederich, you are my film teacher. What would your boss say?" I always ignored that question and responded with a soft kiss on your mouth, up until that night. That night, I was very vulnerable, and in that state the severity of your question pierced my heart, and out of it flowed guilt, shame, and sorrow.
`At this moment time came to a standstill. The seconds that it took me to concoct a coy response lasted for an eternity.
"Did you tell my wife about me?" I asked. I pulled away from you. "Is that why I went home to find my belongings on the lawn this morning and my locks changed?" I felt like a fool for allowing my instability to get the best of me, yet I could not control blaming you.
"You know," you replied. "Sometimes you have to take the high road and forgive Raven."
Disgusted by your naivety, I pushed you aside, put on my clothes, and walked out of the theatre.