First Kiss

Peter Moran
Sep 9, 2018 · 4 min read

“I almost cried,” she said.

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It was Saturday, May 11 of 2011. A sunny day, perfect for the six hours of baseball that lay ahead of me. For once in my young life, I had something else on my mind. Two weeks into a relationship I’d spent four to five months pursuing, I figured it was time to take things to the next level and kiss my girlfriend. Retrospectively, it was weird to plan an event like that ahead of time, and certainly questionable to make such a decision when even using the phrase “girlfriend” was enough to make me cringe and avoid eye contact. (To be fair, even reading the sentence now elicits a similar reaction, but the story continues).

I couldn’t tell you how the games went, but it’s important to note that I played both in the hot sun, on a dirt field in a cotton jersey. That is to say, from a hygienic perspective I had seen better days. Also, I could tell you how the games went. We won both. She came to watch, as in relationships do, wasting significant periods of time just to observe the target of their affection do something they enjoy. I would’ve enjoyed it regardless of her attendance. It’s not like we were hanging out. It’s not as if her support allowed me to perform at a higher level, or I would feel betrayed if she didn’t attend. Overall, it was a near-net-zero addition to my experience at the field, and surely she could’ve spent her time in a more satisfactory manner. In fact, if she couldn’t, that would be even more concerning. It’s not the thought that counts. Gestures carry little value. Regardless, she brought me lunch. It was tuna fish. Something about the ground up chunks of sea creature mixed with copious amounts of condiment suggested that we were on separate pages regarding my plans for the evening.

The games concluded, my teammates made plans that I should’ve joined, I made up an excuse and joined my girlfriend (still cringing as I write that). She said “Good job”, and added questionable comment that I could’ve paid her more attention during the event. My eyebrows furrowed and I pretended it never happened. I hopped into my silver punch bug and followed her to her home. (Note, the following was for directional purposes as I was a new driver and the course we were driving was a first for me; she was well-aware that I was behind her).

The sun started to set as we settled into her couch to watch a movie, as youths in a relationship with little conversational compatibility and limited interested in the lives of each other tend to do. (Note, I mentioned that we “settled into her couch.” I did not say that I “went home and took a shower to clean six hours of sweat and grime off of my body before coming to her place like a reasonable human being”. I was wearing the same shirt I wore underneath my jersey, and a pair of shorts I’d kept in my bag). 8:30 rolled around and my New York State-young-drivers-law-induced curfew of 9:00 loomed heavily over my plans. I suggested we go for a walk, as youths with limited planning ability, even less creativity and a desire to remove themselves from parental supervision tend to do. She obliged.

We talked about things that carried no weight and had no purpose or reason for ever being verbalized for about twenty minutes as we circled the block, finally returning to her driveway. I had about three minutes left on the shot clock as she picked up her mail and walked to the end of the driveway. Only a small strip of Red Hot chewing gum separated me from my tuna fish experience. Finally I lunged — from about eight-to-ten inches distance — straight for her face. I sized up her lips, matching them perfectly with mine as someone who doesn’t understand the concept of a kiss does. Instead of selecting a lip, preferably lower, and embracing it with my own set, I aligned them perfectly, my size advantage being just enough to presumably cut off breathing. After applying suction in a manner that felt incorrect but I knew was a step in the process, I opened my eyes. Hers were similar to that of Frodo Baggins as he stared into the Pool of Death. “Remember this,” I suggested, noting that she’d told me she wanted her first kiss to be memorable, before doing it once more. Wordlessly, she turned towards her house. I peeled in the opposite direction, entering my vehicle and driving home, making the curfew by a single minute.

“What’s that Katy Perry song with the cherry red lipstick?” I texted my best friend.

“I kissed a girl,” he replied.

“Same,” I retorted cleverly.

A sharp buzz from my Razr flip phone alerted me to a new message. It wasn’t his reply; it was from her. Smiling in fond memory of the night’s event, I opened it.

“I almost cried,” she said.