We passed a pair of underwear, sun-bleached and nearly fossilized in the dirt. Further along was a bra, and then a shattered Jack Daniels bottle, and then the faded remains of a Trojan wrapper.
“Someone got laid,” said Kevin.
He said it with conviction, as if he was in on something that I wasn’t.
We climbed a crumbly hill that led out to a summit overlooking the whole of Westlake. You could see the cul de sacs, the man-made lake, the greenbelts, the tennis courts, the swimming pools, the stuff that we would soon come to know as “suburban mediocrity.”
“Looks like a bad idea,” said Kevin.
He unzipped his shorts and took a piss. I did the same.
