I don't need to see you to kiss you anymore, not after so many months spent memorizing the planes of your chest, the set of your shoulders, the lines between your jaw and neck. I see every color as variations of your eyes, compare every sensation to the texture of your skin. I live half of my days now in the hollow beneath your throat, and I'm setting up a weekend home where your hair curls against your collar.

We find each other under the bleachers before the third quarter, your lips still an angry red, fresh blisters in my palms. My fingers are still working the buttons of your jacket when you push me backward and introduce your teeth. Even with the bricks making craters in my shoulders and your hips hard against mine, the question lingers.

"No, she's not," you say into the corner of my mouth, drawing your breath out like you always do when I mention her. I smile. Your hair between my fingers is enough to convince me; I've always had a thing for blondes.