The Kiss
The air buzzed with the electricity of fireflies, the wind cooled with the onset of midnight yet bogged down with a blanket of humidity inescapable in July. The mosquitoes were imminent. The longer Frankie and I stayed on that porch swing, the more daring they became, rushing towards us with determination only to pull back at the last minute and hang loftily in the air, watching with their pincher and waiting for one of us to turn back to the other and smile, relishing in the carefree nights afforded to students in the summer, before striking once more. Our bare feet dangled over the edge into the wood chips and brush, pricked by their edges and retreating back to the cool of the pavement, our own dance repeated for hours, set to the hush of night and the warmth of her laugh.
There was a river in the distance, its babbling ripples over rock and stone trickling into the conversation. If we concentrated hard enough, we could hear it rush down the pile of flattened bedrock into the start of a miniature waterfall, collecting into a pond at the start of my neighbour’s property, the stream seeming to slip so effortlessly into the rest of its body without even the tiniest of splashes. Frankie and I had explored the forest in my backyard all day and were delighted to have found the stream, to which we had slipped off our sandals and treaded over pebble and stone, the water tickling our ankles and providing a welcomed relief from the relentless midday sun. With her hand in mine, I lead the way, exploring until we crossed property lines and found ourselves at the start of the next farm.
Now we were wrapped in a blanket, looking up at the stars, tantalising the mosquitoes with the flush of our cheeks and the seared tan lines across our shoulders. Her hair was knotted back into its characteristic dancer’s bun, twirled effortlessly in an elastic, a few stray hairs popping out in curls around her ears, looping in the hooped earrings that dangled to her jawline and brushed my forehead as I leaned my cheek against her shoulder and felt the weight of the day evaporate into the glow of the crescent moon. I watched her face as she pointed to the birdhouse dangling from the oak tree a few yards away, noticing the way her mouth seemed to stay in a half-smile when she spoke, never drooping down, no matter how expressive she became. She paused and glanced down at me, searching my eyes, wondering why I did not respond to a simple question that to this day I can’t remember. So I smiled and sat up, making something up about its history and the hours my father had spent trying to piece it together, knowing that it was not what she asked but all I could give, lost in everything about her and confused by this nostalgia and guilt that was bubbling up inside of me the longer I sat starting at her.
Shoulder to shoulder, the swing pushed us slowly through space and time, the concept itself lost in all reasoning as I took a deep breath and leaned forwards, daring myself to cross that distance that had always remained sacred. An unspoken rule that lines should not be crossed, could not be crossed, without there being consequence. Yet I leaned in anyway, wanting to feel the remains of the warm midday sun on her skin, preserved for hours because she was light, and it was confusing and wrong and the world that had once been my sanctuary was now upside down, with me dangling senselessly, reaching out for any semblance of guidance to pull me back to that porch swing.
Our lips met and she froze, her hand in mine stiff, my own pulse racing in my ears as I retreated and stood, landing in the wood chips and brush and feeling the searing pain of a thousand sharp edges digging into the river-dried soles of my feet, my actions rushed in desperation to dissolve into the dark of the night. With my face burning with aftershock and embarrassment, I retreated into the house, leaving Frankie swinging alone on that midnight front porch swing.
There was a river in the distance, its babbling ripples over rock and stone trickling into the conversation. If we concentrated hard enough, we could hear it rush down the pile of flattened bedrock into the start of a miniature waterfall, collecting into a pond at the start of my neighbour’s property, the stream seeming to slip so effortlessly into the rest of its body without even the tiniest of splashes. Frankie and I had explored the forest in my backyard all day and were delighted to have found the stream, to which we had slipped off our sandals and treaded over pebble and stone, the water tickling our ankles and providing a welcomed relief from the relentless midday sun. With her hand in mine, I lead the way, exploring until we crossed property lines and found ourselves at the start of the next farm.
Now we were wrapped in a blanket, looking up at the stars, tantalising the mosquitoes with the flush of our cheeks and the seared tan lines across our shoulders. Her hair was knotted back into its characteristic dancer’s bun, twirled effortlessly in an elastic, a few stray hairs popping out in curls around her ears, looping in the hooped earrings that dangled to her jawline and brushed my forehead as I leaned my cheek against her shoulder and felt the weight of the day evaporate into the glow of the crescent moon. I watched her face as she pointed to the birdhouse dangling from the oak tree a few yards away, noticing the way her mouth seemed to stay in a half-smile when she spoke, never drooping down, no matter how expressive she became. She paused and glanced down at me, searching my eyes, wondering why I did not respond to a simple question that to this day I can’t remember. So I smiled and sat up, making something up about its history and the hours my father had spent trying to piece it together, knowing that it was not what she asked but all I could give, lost in everything about her and confused by this nostalgia and guilt that was bubbling up inside of me the longer I sat starting at her.
Shoulder to shoulder, the swing pushed us slowly through space and time, the concept itself lost in all reasoning as I took a deep breath and leaned forwards, daring myself to cross that distance that had always remained sacred. An unspoken rule that lines should not be crossed, could not be crossed, without there being consequence. Yet I leaned in anyway, wanting to feel the remains of the warm midday sun on her skin, preserved for hours because she was light, and it was confusing and wrong and the world that had once been my sanctuary was now upside down, with me dangling senselessly, reaching out for any semblance of guidance to pull me back to that porch swing.
Our lips met and she froze, her hand in mine stiff, my own pulse racing in my ears as I retreated and stood, landing in the wood chips and brush and feeling the searing pain of a thousand sharp edges digging into the river-dried soles of my feet, my actions rushed in desperation to dissolve into the dark of the night. With my face burning with aftershock and embarrassment, I retreated into the house, leaving Frankie swinging alone on that midnight front porch swing.
Property of Morgan Davies and The MAD Exposé
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