BY SARAH TEREZ ROSENBLUM
I kissed Meg on a mountain in Pasadena. Right after she yelled at me to take only pictures, leave only footprints. It was our first date and kissing seemed wiser than pushing her over the mountain’s craggy edge. Really, I could have gone either way. When I pulled back she was staring at me, like I’d done something edgy/bold, dragged a razor over my forearm maybe, or swallowed a Tylenol dry.
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