I missed this: the intensity, the fire, the first.
How a first kiss is compared to the last. How the last is never last until it’s too late.
The way you crawled up on the banister; the way I knew when I tied my black lace dress where your eyes would go, how the necklace made your eyes trail. I took the shot with a step back. Thought about your field of vision. How I wanted you to take all of me.
Our first night: me, a club dress in a sports bar. You: casual, a tiger hunting in his own domain. The energy you had in your eyes painted our weeks of texting over my skin. I could feel your words against each part of me.
The first touch; the kissing bet. I was shaky where you were sure. God, your eyes you whispered, Don Julio tracing your words.
I know I laughed. I flashed back to the two hours of nervous hands working through makeup palettes, finessing brushes, the art of getting ready, wondering what gold you’d like best. Wondering what color would look better tinted against the lips I’d eventually leave.
My heart raced. We forced another shot down. I licked the lime, held it just close enough to my lips. I saw your eyes. Drew my hands onto your thigh, into your thoughts. You steadied my barstool to face you.
That smile. The way you stretched to fix your hair, the cotton of your tee gripping your lats. Drawing roadmaps for my fingertips.
I waited until you wanted it. One, two, three, four: lingering glances on my lips. I leaned in, just to lean back. The quickening smile. You were twenty minutes late I teased, looking around when you kept your gaze steady. The chase.
The bar was full. Sports tee, ball caps, an influx of denim. The smell of soured beer and corn chips. Your hands pushed the lace of my dress to the tops of my thighs. I shivered as the tequila surged.
You leaned in. Your hands held my legs like my lips held your gaze. Inches of space. An inhale away. Hey I smiled. The lingering peck. Like a peach against my mouth; the anticipation of sweetness. The soft, textured strength of your lips.
I drew back first. You drew back further. Another stretch. My god, you laughed. The guttural noise in your throat.
Another shot please I yelled to the bartender. I couldn’t look at you. I could feel the reaction in my cheeks, the warmth of trepidation. I could feel your eyes, the slow, calculated movement of your hands against my legs.
I wanted to inhale you.
I sat across someone from dinner. Someone who was airing their grievances about people. Someone who stared through all the places of me you stared at. His voice pittered against my head. A long, drawn out sip of wine.
People are like books I responded.
I closed my eyes, thinking about your spine.