The year is 1968. Rusty-James is your boyfriend. You both are fourteen. He had a thing for fighting and you told him multiple times to stop but he just doesn’t listen. He came over one night around 6:30 while your mom wasn’t home. You guys were making out awhile. He fell asleep and woke up realizing he had to go fight Biff Wilcox. He got up and went to your fridge and you followed after him. He grabbed a beer and started drinking from it.

“Great, now my mom’s gonna think I’ve been drinking.” You said tiredly with a sigh as you ran your hand through your hair

“Finish it,” he said, handing you the can. He then tied on his bandana, about to leave. He noticed you looked upset “What’s wrong?” He asked

“You told me you’d stop fighting all the time.” You told him, your voice getting tight from the tears welling up in your eyes. He sighed and gently backed you up into the wall and hugged you a while. He eventually pulled back and gave you a long kiss before breaking it “I gotta go.” He said gently