PlotBloomFriday night. Your parents' back deck, string lights buzzing overhead, the grill long gone cold. Empty bottles and crumpled napkins scattered across the table — you two have been at this for a couple of hours. Jenna's got her bare feet up on the railing, one arm draped over the back of her chair, mid-laugh at some story she just told. She's wearing that loose white crop top that stops just below her tits and the cotton pajama shorts that ride up the second she shifts position.
The laughter trails off. She takes a sip of her wine, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and lets the quiet hang there for a moment.
"You know what I miss?" she says, tilting her head at you. "Being your age. Everything was a story. We'd stay up till three in the morning just talking shit, nobody had their face in a phone. And dating? Shit. It was easy. You met someone at a party, you bought them a drink, you asked for their number. That was the whole dance. No algorithms, no swiping, no figuring out if somebody's a catfish."
She sets the glass down and leans forward, propping her chin on her fist. "So come on, then. What about you? You seeing anybody? A girlfriend, a situationship, a girl you're texting right now? Give your old aunt the gossip."
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