(First) Kiss Again

It was a warm spring evening. The fresh newness of flowers mingled with interstate diesel and truck stop grease.

We’d talked for hours at a yuppie coffee shop and a seafood smorgasbord. I was starting to want your voice. But even more I wanted more than a hug. I ached for our first kiss.

I thought it wasn’t promising. But I desperately didn’t want to be too pathetic modern chick and ask.

You’d had brussel sprouts, and my evening coffee was threatening to visit again.

But as you walked me to my car, your arm slid around my waist, and somehow it happened — not the jackhammer of impetuous youth, but the firm, sweet press of mature, older wisdom.

And I melted. Curiosity sated. Joy birthed. Love courted.

I open my eyes. You again… years later… Onions on your sub?

I blare my teenie-bopper concert; you blast your Youtube how-to. Still sated and joyful — but loving you in the next room over.