One perfect fall day in college, a boy offered to help me write a paper for my French literature class. He met me after school to take me home on the back of his motorbike. I climbed on and we roared down the hill to the old neighborhood south of campus, where I lived in a red brick house with a wide front porch.
I was wearing my black watch plaid kilt, a turtleneck and a navy blue sweater, tights and loafers, so I had to sit side saddle, my arms wrapped around his waist.
I was living that life, at least for a moment. A good, good moment.