Me, my girlfriend, and I

Samantha and I now regularly paraded through the neighborhood holding hands. We passed Smiths's house, expecting--and getting--no envy. Two streets to the west we passed Sharon's house, a spreading tudor mansion; Sharon regularly appeared in an upstairs window, nostrils flaring.

My girlfriend, my girlfriend. . .one of the greatest phrases I ever had the pleasure of uttering was my girlfriend. Now, when I gave excuses about why I couldn't watch car racing at Dustin's house, or take a mud bath with Harriet, I could say, 'Sorry. My girlfriend and I have plans.' (Then, my body would grow tingly all over, my eyes would cross, and I'd pass out--but that's beside the point.)

One evening, Sam and I were walking past Sharon's house, her arms wrapped around my waist. A lighted window on the second floor of the mansion stood out against the darkening sky. The silhouettes of a scruffy young man and maned young woman could be seen in the window. Kissing. (The scruffy young man was enjoying it. The maned young woman was distracted.)

I stepped on a stick. The maned young woman's head pulled away from the scruffy young man, and she turned her gaze on the street.

'Uh-oh,' Samantha said.

'What's wrong?' said I.

'Nothing. . .I just got a strange look from that maned young woman in the window. A very strange look.'