My first love, call her Lori, Lori E. to be less forgiving, kept a calendar tacked to the wall on the right side of her bed, not far from the light switch, where she would pencil in a red dot for every time we fucked during any given day, and, as you might imagine, this was high school, so there were multiple days featuring multiple dots, and don’t think for a second I didn’t do everything in my power at this formative time in my life to see as many dots on as many days as possible, but, as the story goes, and I’m starting to suspect you might know where the story is sort of going about now, more than one dot on more than one day would eventually appear that was the work of someone other than myself, like, say, some asshole named Scott during a family trip to Hawaii one Christmas, not to mention the multiple more dots on multiple more days the work of even multiple more assholes like Scott during a trip to Daytona with her friends over spring break junior year, and, no, no, don’t you dare get me started, three decades plus later, about this one supreme asshole to end all assholes, Brett something, I believe, dotting up Lori E.’s calendar while I was busy in D.C. attending Boys State, asleep at the switch, so to speak, during beach week in the summer of 1982, disproving the old adage that justice delayed is justice denied, poetic and/or otherwise.