The Legend

His name was Frank. Frank Something or Other. Our college class was small enough that I could make one call this instant and be reminded not only of his last name, but also get a 20-year update of what he’s been up to since.  
 
We didn't even dig each other. Not like that, anyway. But get high enough on good weed and ask for a back massage in the middle of a lazy afternoon, and you too might get jammin’ to the rhythm of a Bob Marley album on repeat.  
 
Soft, lingering kisses. Lazy, languorous swapping of tongues in perfect sync. Hands searching harmoniously for hair and face and neck—pushing, then pulling to the rhythm of Exodus. Fanciful flickings of a perfect tongue that my imperfect finger would replay over and over again later that evening and in years to follow.
 
And when future lovers ask you about your best kiss ever, you will simply say the name Frank, smile that college-girl smile, and not care in the slightest that he has no last name.
 
R.