[Reaction]
[he's working when the memory hits, sitting at his desk in the small apartment above the closed bookstore. He prepared for this. Wheb the posts went up in the forums about memories striking at random, he arranged to do research and file reports from a distance. He's worked too hard to avoid drawing attention to himself to stand out because of some freak event in town.
The memory isn't what he's expecting at all, and it's the foreign ness of it that hits him hardest. The drag of a skateboard's tail against concrete is unfamiliar, but the bubble of warm, happy, panicky teenage love is so much more so. He doesn't have any memories of this feeling, this strange sickness, this consuming, pleasant obsession with lips and hair. It comes in full color, as some of his oldest memories do, and it's as strange and unknown on his tongue as a cherry lollipop.
When it's gone, he stands, as if he can leave it behind in the chair. It gets under his skin, and he doesn't know why.]