Thursday, June 07, 2007

First Kiss

Created from a prompt from a writing exercise.

She was the kind of girl who brought out the chivalry in him, and made him want to say “thou” and “shalt” and words older than even him—words she wouldn’t understand, but their phonetics and his tone would express the ache in a way modern English couldn’t.

She played him like a gramophone—wound him up, never fast enough, and the lyrics of his longing became discordant, unconnected sounds. You must know this, so you know why it took so long to find the perfect silence.

On the banks of the North Thompson, where the sand and the water met, she stood bare foot, her eyes daring him to claim his prize.

The river’s undertow was almost as notorious as hers, but she had yet to drown a man. There was high school for that.

She said if he made it to the island—a patch of dirt home to saplings and discarded beer cans—she’d kiss him when he came back.

He made it. His purple swim trunks were still dripping with the frigid September water. He made it, and she was trying to suggest he cheated. Not to be insensitive, but because she knew how much he wanted the kiss.

His numb fingers were warming against her sunburnt shoulder, as she finally stopped teasing and got down to business.

“No tongue,” she said, and he never thought to argue.

She breathed warmth between them, as his face drifted to hers. Her long, dark lashes fluttered—and he wondered if he should tell her she didn’t need the blue eye shadow or the mascara—she was the prettiest girl he knew, and fourteen was the perfect age to be.

He hesitated. She grew impatient and stepped into him. Lips met lips. Eyes, opening and seeing for the first time, met eyes. Fingers intertwined. One of them tasted like strawberries. Him or her—who could say?

1 comment:

Rachel said...

That's pretty