First Love


In the early seventies there was an epidemic of Playboy Bunnies hurling themselves out windows of the John Hancock Building. His brother Leo informed him that these bunnies weren’t rabbits. They were women, women with long pointy ears and puffballs over their breasts. Popper was five. He would imagine them falling, all that air speeding past those ears. But these bunnies never landed. Theirs was a free fall that went on and on—and on. And even then he thought he understood why they did it. That if you spent so long so high, so so high, it was only inevitable that you’d need to feel that drop, Hugh Hefner and Chicago itself be damned. If it’s time to fall, let’s fall.

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