Lana enrolled in a photography class the semester we started dating. This was the late 90s, so photography meant real film.
I’d gone with her earlier in the evening to the local cemetery so she could take photos.
After, I drove her back to the art building. She had on a flowing floral skirt that went down to her calves and a knitted top that tied behind her neck and held her firmly enough that she didn’t need a bra. Her hair, recently dyed pink instead of purple, was tied back in a small pony tail. In the car, I rested my hand on her thigh, massaging gently. She had one hand on the back of my neck, occasionally dragging her nails through my hair or stroking my ear. I shuddered as goosebumps blossomed down my neck. I wanted her badly, like always, but I had to wait.
I was sitting out in the classroom area adjacent to the dark room, reading. Lana had been in the dark room for about forty minutes when I heard the rotating darkroom door start to move. I looked up.