And in the overly pretentious harness of ironic '60s pop optimism, they spent the warm summer nights tucked safely underneath the dried up city. Their city, sometimes. Labeling tags on their chests, a blot of vomit green on hers and half a question mark on his.
Not in love, not in lust, simply over their teens.
Then he crawled in for a kiss, and she moved away and said, "Honey, you are swine."
Luckily for him; she, too, was swine.