Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
You always hear people talk about how there are moments in your life when you just know that things will never be the same. I always thought that was all horseshit. But here, now, with the feeling of her soft, incredible lips moving with mine, I know that it happens.
Her lips are like pillows of warm glass. It is strange to find her resistant for even a second, since she has been the kisser and not the kissed. It wasn't like the last time, which felt fumbling and unnatural. That time wasn't off-putting, just like kissing one's sister. This kiss, my kiss, was tingling sweetness, electric apple blossoms.
Somehow, Sydney had an internal clock that told her when time was up. I think it was part of her inherent ability to keep track of a hundred things at once. Not me. In these moments, my thoughts were usually focused on getting her shirt off and whether I’d get past the bra this time. So far, I hadn’t.
When those lips engulfed my head, I said to myself later, ‘nothing else will ever touch this scalp again’. I couldn’t help it, though. I lathered sunscreen on it unthinkingly the next day before I went out. But it was the first time in the suburbs I ever felt no less pure for not showering.
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