We were fourteen years old and had just struck gold: a forgotten stash of mango schnapps. We rendezvoused in your treehouse, a miniature cabin. Two long summers ago, it had fallen down from its branches, and you’d left it where it landed.
We proceeded to get whispering drunk, and the booze was sickly sweet with a hint of aspirin, and when we’d had enough we put the cap back on and stumbled home at four AM and there were no ambulances tinting people’s faces and shadows blue, no crying mums, or people shaking me violently. You still moved away, though.