First Kiss

“I had a dream last night that we kissed.” Through the phone I could feel Harrison’s pulse stop for just a moment. We were thirteen. We had never kissed. We had managed a hug once when our parents were in the kitchen; it was soft and warm. It was a little uncomfortable. “More than a hug” was something we both yearned for. “What was it like?” he asked. I lied. “It was great.” I couldn’t tell him his lips had felt paper thin and slippery, and my hands kept falling from his waist. It finally happened one August afternoon when we had a brief moment to ourselves. We had talked about having our first “more than a hug” many times before on the phone. Sometimes I was brave enough to call it a kiss. But we never talked about it in person, or came close to making it happen. But this one August afternoon as we hugged, knowing we had only moments alone before my mother realized we were missing, I pulled back to say, “Can we try that ‘more than a hug’…?” “Okay…” Harrison’s lips found mine. It was soft but messy. His freckled lips didn’t know what to do against mine, unsure and slow. It was better than my dream, but I thought I would feel differently after my first kiss. I felt the same. Still, as we lowered our gazes and stumbled down the steps, I ran my tongue over my lips until they were chapped.