We thought we were all the same. It’s something no one talks about, really: Yours is yours and mine is mine. Let’s draw pictures. Okay. A crunching tear from a notebook, reach for a pen; heads down and giggles. We’re too old for this. Fold and toss and shuffle. We peel the paper apart and know the Who’s Who. “Paper airplanes!” Why not? Over Ballston, from a towering balcony, we glided. In them—in us—just paper, just drawings, labeled. Block print: THIS IS MY VAGINA. Laughed as the wind took them away into traffic and down the street.