It was yesterday.
Well, technically the wee hours of Feb. 1, but I digress. I seem to digress a lot in my posts. But I digress.
It was my kissaversary, a.k.a. the anniversary of my first kiss.
It’s nearly impossible to forget your first kiss. I’d fantasized about the moment our lips would meet. It’d be magical, awesome, amazing. Life changing.
Picture it. Small town, Canada. Nightfall. Music. Candles. On a birthday cake. In other words, a friend’s birthday party. However, there was the inevitable wait prior to the party, and I don’t mean the powder room.
Pages and pages, years and years of junior high diary entries. Pondering: “Will Joshua kiss me today?” and “Maybe I should kiss him” and “Oh, God, I’m going to die if Joshua doesn’t kiss me.”
Somehow I survived grade seven. I lived through grade eight. Kissless. Entered grade nine. Without you. My desire to kiss anyone died. But our story carried on, and we reconciled in grade ten. And I waited and waited. Seriously, you kissed other girls. What was the big deal? Just kiss me.
There was a night when I almost had my first kiss. But it was more of a rail road accident. Nervous, we were saying goodnight. I could hear the train. We both wore braces, and your slightly-parted lips approached mine. I leaned. Mouth closed. Then open – like a baby chickadee. We clanged. It was legit metal-on-metal.
“Maybe next time?” you said, and you kissed my cheek and walked through the long solarium. And I felt like an dork. Who doesn’t know how to kiss? Oh, yeah. Someone who has never been kissed.
I resided with the fact I’d die a kiss-virgin. You and I would have a hand-holding, happily-ever-after. And probably adopt.
The night of that birthday party? That would be different. That would be the moment. Fireworks. Explosions. Unicorns. I mean, streamers. You were leaving. I walked you to the foyer. You leaned, and …
… damn it. Same result as last time. Except your braces were off. I stepped away. Embarrassed. Thinking, “Maybe this isn’t for me,” and I considered becoming a nun like one of my aunts.
However, you said “Let’s try that again.”
And … finally. I won’t get all Harlequin, and be like “your lips melted onto mine as we meshed together under the moonlight.”
It was a first kiss. The only moonlight was a sliver shining through the stained-glass windowed door. Was it mind-blowing? To the extent that I waited for four years for you to kiss me? Anticipation-wise, yes. You were gentle, sweet and minty, and I was convinced after a thirty-second kiss we were going to last forever.
But we didn’t last forever. That summer, we broke up. Thus continuing our off and on relationship. Hanging on like a cat’s claws to a tree until the night we ended – for good, for real. The night we ended, I tried to kiss you, but – empty and hollow – you refused to reciprocate. In a millisecond, you killed me. Our first kiss? You made me feel loved and wanted. But the night you dumped me, I felt like trash on the side of the gravel road you left me on.
All I had were memories, mementos, photos. Which documented that first kiss, measured against every guy I kissed like a high-jump standard. Some barely made the mark. A few were awarded merit. And a couple rarities vaulted over the pole.
But we did have one last-first kiss. We were broken up. No longer together. If I drank, I would swear intoxication. It was an emotional time. John Candy died. Then Kurt Cobain took his life. Our class was super emotionally wrecked.
You and I drove around until the wee hours of the morning. Talking, laughing, crying. And you kissed me under the moonlight. That’s the first kiss I want to remember.
Our last kiss.
*Name changed for privacy