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Where is Peter Frampton?

He played Frampton Comes Alive over and over that summer, and I would look at him, my legs splayed out across his naked shoulders, lean up and kiss him, bittersweet tequila and salt on his tongue.

My son gestures to the radio. "Mom, who’s that singing?"

We were listening to the oldies station. "Peter Frampton," I said. My kid is sixteen, like I was then. "I loved this music when I was a girl."

"Nice."

"You want Mexican for supper?" I asked. "I feel like a margarita."

Story by:

Sarah Black

submitted at 3:13am

28 April 2009