The question of romantic entanglement was one that Volkmer had spent a good deal of time thinking on. He had long since recognized himself to be an emotional isolationist, but that did not stop him from noticing the slender pale legs of the girls at the high school when spring would finally warm the white shell off of the world.
A small river ran near the back of the peaked little house where he lived and on the humid summer nights he would sometimes hear the unmistakable female tinkle of laughter coming from that direction. He knew that the locals spent long summer nights floating down the river in inner tubes, drinking beer, watching the fireflies, and kicking their bare feet lazily in the water.
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