We were sweeping his father’s driveway, contemplating whether kissing a guy would be anything like kissing a girl. After we’d dated the same woman in college, he’d offered me a summer job painting houses so we could philosophize, determine the true nature of the world. His face was aquiline, wisp of goatee, full lips. That afternoon we examined the question of kissing from every angle while we swept: How a woman parts her lips, slips her tongue into you. How men might do this with each other. Pausing next to his pile of leaves, he cocked his head, seemed to consider the curve of my cheek. Our eyes locked. I felt he might take a step toward me, but the moment passed, and, smiling, we grasped the wooden handles again, began to sweep the lingering questions of desire back into the lot adjacent — where wild weeds flowered in scandalous bloom.