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I was hoodwinked into a blind date the Saturday night of my second full week in the orphanage.

My entourage of fellow left behinds awaited my fetching of the lass from the warmth of her home.

And now all coupled, the eight of us walked three short blocks to the bungalow hosting the soiree.

It started in a basement den with soft drinks, large tins of potato chips, and Cross Town Traffic on the stereo. The house smelled of permanence, and well lived lives, with a new current of intruding happy hormones, and all spiced, ever so slightly, with an occasional whiff of marijuana, barely a buzz.

My date was easy on the eyes. A quietly attractive, buddingly confident, bookish, but playfully serious sixteen year old.

We bantered a bit. And boogied a bit, and shared one or two 3.2 beers.

And then out of the blue, she said, “ Know what I’m really interested in…don’t laugh… Ornithology”

“Hmmm,” I paused a beat,” So you, just might be… interested in the mating habits of the young jail-bird.”

Her eyes went wide, and she blushed the red of the Marlboro pack in my shirt pocket. Then she smiled, and pulled me towards her and we danced to the Temptations’ My Girl.

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