The smell of burning citronella candles mixes with those aromas of young love and pours over the backyard, not yours but hers, and you take a bite of the red plump candied apple that is too sweet like she is, and it’s night and her father looks at you and he’s not happy his 17-year old daughter (even though you’re only sixteen) is going off with you in your butterscotch-colored VW Bus and suddenly you’re freed by her father and leaving with her, her warm sweaty hand in yours and you drive to Goofy Golf, just with her, where you will par all nine holes and you will win a stuffed bear and give the stuffed bear to her, but not yet, and you stand next to her at the counter and she wears form-fitting cotton shorts and a loose tied dyed t-shirt, and she smells good as each of you select your colored golf ball and old beaten club and your arm brushes hers and you are excited just standing near her, and you are both teenagers on that hot summer night when Love will be forever, yet desire is tempered and checked in a bashful unsure way (after all, you’re teenagers) and when you kiss her she responds and kisses back and you drive her home after and she gives you a long throbbing kiss before she leaps from the passenger side of your butterscotch-colored VW bus and sprints to her doorstep, the porch light shining down on her from above so her face is dark and hidden, and she and you know this, this mutual messy conglomeration of desire and feeling and excitement that will never end and months later when it does, you are left sullen and wounded, and remark on Life’s Tragedy as if you and you alone are dammed by the Universe until another day comes and you walk in darkness until it yields to day, and another, and your life goes on, and so does hers.