I remember every one of you. I remember the smell of grass on that thick summer night. The air was at once still and electric, courtesy of a million crickets. Lakewood Park spilled out in front of us, a vast expanse of possibilities bathed in the light of dusk. I remember the taste of your mouth.

Lying on our backs in Edgewater Park. We were two molecules in that Fourth of July ocean of people as fireworks bloomed in the night sky. Lying on our backs in Willard Park as the Blue Angels cut through the flawless sky, brilliant booming needles. Lying on our backs on the hot concrete that surrounded Foster Pool, wet and sunburned and happy to a fault. I wore a pink halter suit cut low. You had to lay on your stomach for a reason.

Cakes from Hough Bakery, perfect white frosted circles.

There was the Memphis Triple Drive-In and those god-awful shrimp rolls from the refreshment stand. We washed them down with ice-cold Bud. Remember trespassing on Whiskey Island? It was a no-man's land of rubble and train tracks, but it was fun in that old Willy's Jeep. Remember the Cloverleaf Speedway, with its motorcycle hill climbs and screaming stock cars?

There was that night when the lake shimmered all around us, offering up its cool respite from the endless August heat wave. Do you remember kissing as the waves lapped around the curve of your lower back? Leaving your Pinto in the otherwise empty parking lot at 2 a.m. wasn't our brightest move, but the cops at Huntington Beach were forgiving, particularly since we weren't throwing beer bottles or starting a fire. When they finally spotted us, they kept their flashlights cast down as we stepped dripping wet and nude from the water.

"Now you kids get dressed and scram."

Speeding over the West Shoreway on the back of your motorcycle, taking the Westinghouse curve at 70 miles an hour. Speeding down Lake Avenue in that Saab you were so proud of, past the quiet Tudor mansions and lush lawns, past the giant blue "W" that waved from atop the Winton Place. Speeding through the Metroparks in your vintage Cadillac with the outrageous fins. It was a cool October night and we had the top down. I took my shirt off and threw my head back. You tried to keep the car on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for me.

Master Pizza, of course. Pepperoni, please.

D'Poos and Peabody's and the Flat Iron Café. Remember the pool at Fagan's? Friday nights meant the Party in the Park at Chester Commons or at Mall C or on Public Square. The keg beer was terrible, but flowed as copiously as the Cuyahoga. We'd have a nightcap at the Roxy. Or the Landing. Or one of those mile-high corned beef sandwiches at Pat Joyce's.

Goddamn, how I remember the Theatrical. I worked as a barmaid at that funny little joint in the basement of Reserve Square, the Park Pub. I'd saunter over to the Theatrical after my afternoon shift and perch on a barstool in Jeremy's section. You were the house piano player. I'd sip Canadian Club and soda and puff Marlboro Lights. And wait. The elevated stage was in the center of that huge amoeba-shaped bar. When it was the band's turn to play, you'd step down and walk directly to me.

"Shall we dance?"

It was always a slow dance. I wore high heels and clingy knit tops. You would hold me close and I'd feel the fine sturdy fabric of your tuxedo and inhale your subtle cologne. I'd lift my face and look into your eyes. Our lips came so, so, close, but never brushed together. Fully clothed and for all the world to see, those moments were the zenith of eroticism.

Flaming cherries jubilee at the English Oak Room. Breakfast at the Big Egg. Captain Frank's and steaks at Jim's in the Flats. There was the Blue Fox with its mafia men and molls and Brother's Lounge with (be still my heart) Kelly the bartender.

I know it's gone now, but do you remember that old building that stood at the corner of Canal and Rockside? Before it was falling apart and filled with junk, it was the original Lockkeeper's Inn. Before that, it was the raucous and gritty Angie's River Pub, where the term "driving the bar" had singular relevance. But what we did in that parking lot on that snowy night, baby, that's between you and me.

Right down the road, the Goodyear sign is gone too. It used to tower over Broglio's, which is gone as well. But I still have the memories of secret glances and whispers that passed between us there.

I've tied them into a tiny bundle with a ribbon spun from tears and kisses, then and tucked it into the pocket of my heart. Call it imaginary, but all the backhoes and bulldozers in the world can't demolish it.

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