When this six-top of college girls orders a pitcherof sangria, it’s likely some gateway drug to rebellionin this Christian college town—they’re twenty-something& still earn demerits for sitting cross-legged or traffickingthe sidewalk kept sacred for men. I’m seventeen & have beena waitress for one thousand years. The varsity defensive line dubsme Flaming Virgin. We devil-stick. We hacky-sack up& down third period study hall. We’re so proud of ourselves.It’s 1999. I close the Irish pub after working a double with so muchGrateful Dead on loop. Oz the line cook asks me back to his placefor beers & lets me out of his closet three days later. The light’s sobright all I understand is a tattoo of waves crashing over one bony hip.When I’m little Dad recites Ode on a Grecian Urn every timewe go out for one of his brick-laying jobs. I’m in charge of mortar.I love the bit about the bride so stuck in time she can never get caught.