The First Time

Even though it was summer, we were shivering. Our white knuckles interlocked like the couplers of a train car. It was so early but we were so young it seemed so late. I tried to be patient, but you hadn’t taught me how to yet. My foot bruising the concrete.

I kept secrets from you. Never told you that I knew what it was you wanted to say almost every time you couldn’t—or wouldn’t. This time was no excuse. I knew, as soon as your Kelly Clarkson eyes looked up to meet mine. You were struggling to form the words, choking on their absence. I wanted to help you out, and say them for you. I knew, but I knew that I would ruin it. And I wanted it to be perfect for our first time.

So I waited—I was learning—for you to chase the fear away and come clean. You could still keep your secrets, just had to let out your deepest. And yours and mine overlapped.

I repeated. Repeated. Rinse, lather, repeated, until our smiles made kissing impossible. We were so young that we were whole. So I ran the eight blocks home. My feet bruising the concrete.