For the fair month of May, I remember my very first kiss. It was magic – the perfect first kiss for any teenage girl.
He was floppy haired and funny, and considered relatively cool among band kids. We’d been “going out” for a week, holding hands in the hallway and leaning on each other after practice.
One afternoon, he walked me home, about a mile, a mile and a half from his house. We hung out in my carpeted kitchen in roller-footed chairs, drinking Cokes. As the evening fell and his time to leave approached, the unspoken expectation rose.
I don’t remember exactly how we came together in a kiss, but I imagine our head were close together and we both turned into it. It was sweet and soft and as soon as it was over I wanted to do it again. But he had to go. I closed the door behind him and stood there quietly for a few minutes, excited at what had just happened and trying to imprint the feeling in my mind.
The next morning, we met up in the hallway before first period. He told me that because he left later than he planned he had to run home awkwardly carrying his backpack and sax case. He pulled a muscle in his groin.
That kiss was pretty momentous.