After the big game, she asked for a ride home. My moped was sluggish, but she held my shoulders. Thousands of fans were stopped in their crayon-colored cars; swarms of mopeds formed, whining together. We flashed past on the white dotted lines between cars, moped rattling underneath us. The parking lot behind her apartment was empty. She climbed off my moped, and I kissed her.

"Am I wearing a sign that says kiss me?" she said. "What the fuck. Every damn body." I wanted to say she had implied something, but she had not. Just that she trusted me.


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