We parked in a cornfield. It was her father’s car. They found cancer in his butt. Annie left the radio on and there was a little light from it. Meatloaf was playing. The moon was orange and full. We talked. We drank a fifth of vodka. We tongue kissed and she told me to take my shirt off. She was wearing a short black skirt. Her tits were soft and perfect scoops and I played with them while she used her hand on me. There was moisturizing lotion in the glove box. It smelled like bananas. Her father smoked dope to ease the pain.

He was getting treatment in Boston, which was more than a hundred miles away. Her mother quit cigarettes and cried on the porch every night after her shift at the Polish Club. Then I told Annie about blue balls and she helped me take my pants off. I watched her slip her skirt down her legs that were tan and smooth and strong from being a lifeguard at the Greenfield swimming hole. Her panties were white. I put my hand inside them and it was warm. She didn’t need to shave. I finger banged her. She closed her eyes.

The steering wheel was getting in the way so we got into the back seat. There were mosquitoes but they didn’t bother me. We fired up a joint from her father’s stash. She told me he was going to die. The doctors had given him six months to live. He lost sixty pounds and his hair fell out. He still collected disability from the railroad where he’d been a welder for thirty years. I didn’t have a rubber so she told me to pull it out in time. She said, Please. She said, Not like before. Her panties were on the floor, crumpled.

Her breath was hot and in my ear. She whispered my name. We pounded against each other for several minutes. We were slippery with sweat and other fluids. The noise we made was swampy. Together we smelled musty and wild. Then I blew my nut inside her because it felt better that way and she wouldn’t look at me. She was so mad she cried. I got dressed and smoked outside, leaning against the Impala, and waiting for her to stop.