There was a dead bird in the fountain, but it barely looked like a bird anymore. The tips of its wings rippled with the current of the water, which flowed around its swollen body down an embankment and into a lower level where tired urban bikers dipped their feet. I used to come to this fountain when I was in high school and sit and will people to talk to me. Sometimes I would come with friends and we would laugh and listen to the live jazz that Temple students always played by the Southeast entrance of the park. Other times I would come by myself, seeking respite from my suburban angst, and sit on the fountain with my knees under my chin, smoking cigarettes I’d bought at the train station (the only place that didn’t ID me) and making hopeful eye contact with any person who showed a vague bit of interest in my presence. Mostly I spoke with people I’d never see again–a 300 pound black woman who, upon seeing my friends snapping pictures of each other, insisted we take some modeling poses of her; some trustafarians with expensive bikes; a man named Tom with a British accent who worked at the UN and with whom I fell instantly in love. Once I met a boy who I ended up kissing by the LOVE sculpture that same night. We dated for a few weeks before I left for Paris, but when I came back it was understood that something had changed in me and there was no point in seeing each other anymore.