I felt sorry for Mr. Sorensen, always away on business with three beautiful blonds at home. Jen was platinum, Abbie was strawberry, and yours varied from time to time.
I liked flirting with Abbie, telling her that she and I would go out when she was a little older if her sister didn’t mind.
I remember being alone in the house with Jen on night, and all I could think to do was teach her to how to play Stairway to Heaven on the piano until two in the morning. I thought I was being a gentleman; my mind rattled with her stories about her rapacious ex-boyfriend. If I could do it over, we’d play the piano naked.
Though I coveted your daughters, I think I loved you the most, and I think you knew. I was flattered that we were able to talk about anything, that I could tell you I was a virgin and you could tell me that you really shouldn’t have worn white. I was somehow honored that I could drop and join in your afternoon get-togethers with the neighborhood women. And grateful for your understanding when you found my friend Jeff and I parked in front of your house one night smelling of blackberry brandy and talking nonsense after Jen and I had broken up.
I remember coming by after school one afternoon to ask you to stop taking my side in the break-up, and your smiling remark that we should be careful lest the neighbors start calling you Mrs. Robinson.
I still think about what might have happened had I seen the movie.
Originally appeared in the Winter 1994 edition of Columbia Journal.