Only that

If asked to pull up every memory of the girl, I could recall the tattoo between her breasts—antlers, which climbed out of her shirt just at the tips and sickly, like thorns or black skin cancer—her calling a boyfriend every night to evince a trust no one believed they shared, and (I have to think this was related) that she attended a women's college brimming with lesbians or straight girls who were open, at least occasionally, to lesbianism. We took a class together one summer. The only exclusive conversation we had was in a pub, which revealed that I became an evangelistic drunk and that she lived in the same county as Andrew Wyeth. I was unsuccessfully connecting European farmers' rights to the divinity of Jesus while she talked with dispassion about how much the artist meant to her little town. I glanced through his paintings the other day and thought about her suddenly. I wondered what else I could remember; as it turns out three things, only that. We drank either beer or wine.