03 December 2012 nonfiction, "My First Kiss"

My first kiss tasted like weed and water

Not regular water though. How water tastes when you’ve put it into a Gatorade bottle and it still has that faint taste of what the Gatorade used to be, but not significantly enough like Gatorade that you can remember what flavor it was.

My first kiss wasn’t magical, not really. I guess I kind of wanted it to happen but I don’t really think I would have minded if all I did was cuddle that night. I think that kissing is a byproduct of that night and who he was and who I am and what I’d been doing.

I think that the saddest part of my first kiss is that it was my first kiss but I am the only one who really sees it that way, as something that needs to be remembered and put away in a little box for me to come back to and compare every other kiss I have in the future.

And I can remember everything about it. who initiated it who was the one who was more into it, honestly like just everything.

And its sad because who knows how much he remembers

How much he wanted

How he feels about it

And the funniest thing? Well actually the weirdest thing

Anytime I smell weed it smells like

Familiarity

And I feel wistful and strange and confused because what I feel isn’t normal

Your first kiss isn’t supposed to be an accident

It’s supposed to be special right like youre supposed to wait for a while and when it suddenly comes youre happier than you’ve ever been because it allows you to live in the moment

But for god’s sake there is supposed to be a point at which you feel something

Something other than something soft on your lips like there’s supposed to be fireworks or something

Being drunk and getting your first kiss is like

Holding someone’s hand for the first time when you’re in mass in middle school.

Or in line outside with all the other little kids and the teacher makes you hold hands with the boy next to you and you blush because you’re just old enough to realize that boys are different than girls but not old enough to accept it yet.

And you know they might not know your name or your story and they’re probably feeling a little less than you are, and you don’t know their story though you might know their name but you don’t feel anything other than exactly what it is.

And you feel like you should feel something but when its over within a few minutes and you go your separate ways to class you think and think and think

And overthink

And it means more and more until you find someone else to have a crush on and occupy your time and

You wish only for them

But passing by or someone mentions their name

And you remember your little meaningless encounter.

But it’s like its not even real.

Because it kind of isn’t and it kind of doesn’t count.