From the "I can't be the only one" file: word associations.
This is the Crepe Myrtle in the back yard. Every time I see it—every time—I say the words "Crepe Myrtle" in my head, then remember:
Jean-Claude, my French sous chef BF who made me a banana/strawberry for breakfast the night we met. While he was cooking I said the word—long-"a"—"CRAPE." He smiled. "Non non non—'KREP!'"
Myrtle is Myrtle Beach. 1970-74. I was 13-16, an important time in my young gay life.
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