I Want to Kiss You

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Bethany and I sat smoking in her parents’ backyard beneath a wet July half-moon. Aside from the occasional cloud passing languidly overhead, it was a clear night. Humid, though, if I remember right. Anyway, neither of us were saying much, just passing a joint back and forth, listening to the cicadas hum like engines in the trees. The weed tasted like orange peel. I was nursing a lukewarm beer and trying to think of something to say, because I felt like I had to say something. All that came to mind was “I want to kiss you.”

I couldn’t say that, though. If I did, she’d know that for the past several months, I’d been developing feelings for her. I’d ignored them at first. She’d had a boyfriend, Drew, up until two weeks ago, and to nurture any romantic attraction would have been in poor taste. I did an alright job of keeping them buried, though whenever we talked, I’d sense them stirring, like roots struggling to break through a seed.

I loved our talks. No bullshit, like with everyone else we knew. No idle gossip, no chatting about the weather or who’s been sleeping with whom, no rehashing old stories in some narcissistic effort to mythologize our lives. I remember we’d stay up all night at parties, long after everyone had left or passed out, feverishly discussing whether or not existence has any objective value in a godless universe, which Fugazi songs we thought were the best, and why John Ashbery is the greatest living American poet. She truly came alive then, during our talks. Her fierce intellect sparked behind her luscious blue eyes, cutting through me like a diamond cuts glass. And how musical her speech was, her words carried by the fluid rhythm of her thoughts. It was like a dance, both of us leading and following in our turn. I think that’s partly why she and Drew broke up, but I can’t confirm it.

Ironic that now I couldn’t think of one single thing to say to her other than “I want to kiss you.” As if someone had branded this phrase upon my mind with a hot iron. I wondered if she could tell, as if my present manner somehow betrayed this desire I was trying my damndest to conceal. Of course she couldn’t. I’m practically a virtuoso at keeping my feelings hidden from view. We were friends, after all. It would be imprudent to risk our friendship for romance.

“I should probably get to bed,” Bethany sighed, pressing the joint into the damp grass, “It’s like, 2 o’clock in the morning.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, “I have to work in six hours.”
We both rose, and I walked with her to the back door of her parents’ house, t he words “I want to kiss you” still smoldering.
“Text me tomorrow,” She said, “We can go get a drink or something.”
“Yeah… I will.” A meek smile passed over my face.
“Well…” She paused, anticipating something maybe, but unsure of what that something was, “Goodnight.” We hugged hastily. She went inside and I trudged out to the street, to my car. I opened the door and slumped into the driver’s seat.
“I want to kiss you,” I whispered to the empty space beside me, before turning the key in the ignition and driving away.

-r. miller

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