I was 19. Soon to have a word processor but years away from the internet. In other words, I'm old now, but I was young then.

It was the summer after my sophomore year. I had spent the early morning at a local swimming pool, where guys from my high school swim team did workouts. Like many of my efforts, I'd suffered that morning without any real plan--I wasn't on the college team, and so it was just a lot of work. But I didn't have much else to do, since my summer job was only a few days a week. That morning, after a quick post-workout nap, I decided to head to the local mall and wander the bookstore. While I was a tall, blond, attractive swimmer, I was--and remain--a nerd.

In the bookstore, I ran into Margaret, who was also looking for a good novel to read. She and I had attended neighboring single sex high schools and had then gone to the same university out of state. Very pleasant and her class valedictorian, Margaret had lovely clear skin, silky straight brown hair, and very precise hands. I remember those hands. But, as for dating, she had always struck me as too careful, too prim, too perfect. She had seemed to imply she was available for dating, but she’d seemed too pure to try to kiss. If this were fictional porn, maybe I could make Margaret into some sort of kinkster who blew me in the bathroom at Barnes & Noble, but that's not what happened.

Accompanying Margaret that day was her twin sister, Anne. Not identical. Unlike her sister, Anne had not been in our honors classes. She hadn't helped edit the newspaper. She hadn't sat at the front of class or raised her hand promiscuously or sweated about grades. She'd been on the tennis team, but I never got the impression she tried all that hard. She was, basically, normal. She was also, in real life, smoking hot. Freckled, red hair, quick laugh, very trim. She also gave off a good girl vibe, but she was far more accessible than her intimidating sister.

After a few minutes of banter, we exited the bookstore with our loot (_Color Purple _for Margaret. A Raymond Carver book for me. Mademoiselle magazine for Anne). We sat indoors at the mall and had a coke. We chatted. I forget the details; it's been decades.

As we left the air conditioned mall and headed into the brutal Dallas heat, Margaret appeared to suddenly realize she was late for her summer job. Full of apologies, the two girls scurried to their car. I was walking past them when Margaret asked for a favor. She needed to get Anne home, and her job was in the other direction. Would I mind dropping her off?

Presumably, I said fine, we got into the car, and arrived at their house. I say presumably because, again, I don't recall the details.

I do recall the house, which was a blue gray mansion hidden behind a grove of trees, protected by an electronic gate. They were definitely the sort of girls who’d gotten the extra large box of crayons. I also recall that Anne had mentioned two things on that car ride over: her long-term boyfriend and her involvement in Young Life, a youth group for fundamentalist Christians.

She did, however, ask me into her house.