The definite account of the high school reunion. The author’s was held in Fargo.

As wine ages better than beer, so did the women look better than the men. Sometimes the intervening years appeared to have absolutely no effect whatsoever, and you wonder what Black arts had been employed to keep them looking so astonishingly youthful. Then you run into the Class Stoner, who was missing most of the up-front teeth and had facial lines of a sun-baked octogenarian crone, and you realize the truth: of course, they cast a spell on him back in high school, and feast on his life essence. At least he seems okay with that.