Marc outside. The blanket perpendicularly sweaty to us because his muscles were too big. My dress too short. But it was dark. Marc said no one could see us. His hands started to move. It was as if that shone the spotlight on. Twinkly porch lights gleamed from the backyard like Friday Night Lights. LED garden posts flickered with paranormal activity. Red Chinese lanterns glowed in cherry blossoms. Mid sedan headlights swiveled around in the cul-de-sac like popcorn bulbs from a carousel. Watches pulsed with little alien eyes. The neighbors’ pool reflected a Carnival Cruise. Police crime scene. Times Square. The fucking full moon. It didn’t happen for us that night, outside at a friend’s BBQ when everyone else was inside getting a sweater, another mixed drink, discussing my youth in their well-lit upstate home. I remember Marc said, you’re wet just because of the humidity.