The way she walked, the way she talked.. she was perfect. And she could always make a boring day come to life. There was an unassailable purity to her. Thinking about her, nothing could hurt me.

She slipped me a note under the desks of our homeroom, but all I could think about was how well her dress accentuated her figure. Abashed, I turned away before reading the note. Her beautiful blue eyes just made me so nervous, I couldn't help it. But... something occurred to me as she dejectedly left, while I was still clutching that folded note... the note just had three words.

I love you.

She moved away the next day. Family stuff, I'd heard. We didn't keep in touch... she was hurt because she thought I didn't return her feelings. I was just a nervous kid, but she was a sensitive kid, too.

Then... years go by. I'm... alone. As usual. Perusing a magazine I'd found at the truck stop I was at. And as I turn the page, I stop. My breath catches at the familiar face and figure, interrupted only by creases and staples.

My blood runs cold. My memory has just been sold. My angel is the centerfold.