Taboo 1 -1980- – Editor's Choice

She walks home under streetlights that buzz like flies. Her house is dark except for the kitchen light, where her father sits reading the newspaper, the headline announcing something about hostages and interest rates. He doesn’t look up.

The taboo isn’t sex. Not yet. The taboo is the knowing . She knows she shouldn’t be here. He knows she knows. The waitress knows, and doesn’t care—she’s seen a hundred versions of this booth, this rain, this lie. The jukebox plays “Heart of Glass” for the third time, and the neon sign outside ( EAT ) flickers the T into an F every four seconds. Taboo 1 -1980-

She nods. That’s the second taboo: the agreement to return. She walks home under streetlights that buzz like flies

He is twenty-three. He wears a leather jacket that isn’t broken in, just broken. He says things like “You’re not like the others” and means it, for about six hours. His car’s tape deck plays The Clash, then Springsteen, then nothing but static and the hiss of tape winding. The taboo isn’t sex