by Andrew Boylan
The first naked girls I ever saw were refracted in white light across the pine trees that lined I-95 as we approached home. My babysitter, who put me to bed with stories of her dates at the porno drive-in on the border between my town and her town, would cry on the phone while I spooned under-cooked Mac & cheese between my lips. She told me that the girls in the trees put their make up on with a spraypaint can. But my babysitter wore blue eyeshadow and her acne peaked out of her foundation. She said some of the plots were well executed. Even at that age, I understood what she meant. If we were driving home at night, when the drive-in was active, dad would hit the gas, as if racing to the climax. I could glimpse just enough in that white light to imagine my babysitter chewing on the coiled phone cord while mascara ran down her cheek in the dark hollow of my bedroom.