It’s been over twenty years now and with each passing year, the beginning of the story changes. New smells, sounds, and breezes emerge. Others get lost. Voices change and sunny days become cloudy. I had forgotten that one afternoon, when he met me at school and we walked to the zócalo, getting caught in a torrential summer downpour that soaked us to our underwear. My pale blue skirt, transparent and clinging to my thighs. How could I have forgotten that day?

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