My First Kiss

Here’s the deal. You asked me for a beautiful description of my first kiss, whether it was awkward as middle school hygiene or some dirty, passionate make out session. I would love to describe it to you. Joke’s on you though, because it hasn’t happened yet. Despite what you may think, not all of today’s teenagers are sneaking into utility closets to make out. Not even most of them. But I will tell you about my kiss, because I’m still holding onto it and have spent a lot of time thinking about it. No one’s asked for it yet, and I’m not willing to just hand it away for some guy’s triple take and sustained ego. But here’s what will happen. I can’t describe what my surroundings will look like (aside from the fact that there will be no mops in the near proximity). I can’t even describe what he will look like. But I’ll be nervous. Iron butterflies which to this point have only awoken in my stomach for public speeches and performances will be slamming against each other like sumo wrestlers so hard that I’ll probably need surgery afterward. He’ll be nervous too, and he damn well should be. I am a masterpiece that one should not touch without great cause. Not to mention I’m a black belt. His hand will touch my hair, or my cheek, or my arm, and then, then our lips will touch. It will be beautiful and bombastic, not like The Notebook or Titanic or any other score of cheesy irrelevant romances, but like a June flower that’s waited its entire life for the pressure to release so it can emerge among snow crystals and make the world a better place. Of course, knowing myself and everything else I do, it will most likely be incredibly awkward. So awkward. But later that night, when my cheeks can no longer physically retain my smiles and the golden haze of June lilies surrounds my dreams, I will think to myself “Thank you for nothing, Lindsey Royce.”