As I suspected, it is spectacular. Firm and round and perfectly proportioned. It’s the kind of butt that requires holding. He should never wear pants.
I palm and squeeze it and it feels even better than I’d expected.
He pushes himself up, arms on either side of my head, and smiles at me. “It’s not a melon, you know.”
“I like it,” I say, and squeeze again.
“It’s yours,” he tells me.
“Have you ever considered wearing chaps?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” he says, laughing and blushing.
I really like making him blush.
He lowers himself and kisses me again. It feels like there’s no part of me that’s not being kissed right now. I drag my hands away from his butt and up to his shoulders to slow us down. If I kiss him anymore, it’s just going to make it harder on me later.
So.
No more kissing.
I FEEL THE HESITATION in her lips, and to be honest, I’m a little freaked out by how intense this is too. I push myself up and pull her up to seated. I palm the back of her neck and rest my forehead against hers. We’re both breathing too fast, too ragged. I knew we had chemistry, but I didn’t expect this.
We’re kindling amid lightning strikes. A lit match and dry wood. Fire Danger signs and a forest waiting to be burned.
Of all the ways today could’ve gone, I couldn’t have predicted this. But now I’m sure that everything that’s happened today has been leading me to her and us to this moment and this moment to the rest of our lives.
Even Charlie’s academic probation from Harvard feels like it’s part of the plan to get us to this point. If not for Charlie and his fuck-up, my mom wouldn’t have said what she did this morning.
If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have left so early for the haircut that I have not gotten yet.
I wouldn’t have gotten on the 7 train with the theological conductor looking for God.
If not for him, I wouldn’t have left the subway to walk, and I wouldn’t have seen Natasha having her religious musical experience. If not for the conductor’s talk of God, I wouldn’t have noticed her DEUS EX MACHINA jacket.
If not for that jacket, I wouldn’t have followed her into the record store.
If not for her thieving ex-boyfriend, I wouldn’t have spoken to her.
Even the jerk in the BMW deserves some credit. If he hadn’t run that red, I wouldn’t have gotten a second chance with her.
All of it, everything, was leading us back here.
When we’re both breathing normally again, I kiss the tip of her nose.
“Told you,” I say, and kiss it again.
“Nose fetishist,” she says, and then: “What did you tell me?”
I punctuate my words with nose kisses.
“We.”
Kiss.
“Are.”
Kiss.
“Meant.”
Kiss.
“To.”
Kiss.
“Be.”
Kiss.
She pulls away. Her eyes have been replaced by storm clouds, and she untangles her limbs from mine. It’s hard to let her go, like pulling magnets apart. Did I freak her out with my talk of fate? She scoots over on the couch and puts way too much space between us. I don’t want to let the moment go. A few seconds ago I thought it would last forever.
“Want to sing another one?” I ask. My voice rattles and I clear my throat. I look over at the TV. We didn’t get a chance to see her score before we started kissing. It’s 89%, which is terrible. It’s pretty hard to get less than 90% in norebang.
She glances over at the TV too but doesn’t say anything. I can’t fathom what’s happening in her head. Why’s she resisting this thing between us? She touches her hair, pulls on a strand and lets it go, pulls on another and lets it go.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I slide over and close the distance she put between us. Her hands are clasped in her lap.
“What are you sorry for?” I ask.
“For running hot and cold.”
“You weren’t so cold just a minute ago,” I say, making the absolute lamest joke (along with puns, innuendos are the lowest form of humor) I could possibly make in this moment. I even waggle my eyebrows and then wait for her reaction. This could go either way.
A smile overtakes her face. Those storm clouds in her eyes don’t stand a chance. “Wow,” she says, her voice warm around her smile. “You sure have a way with words.”
“And the ladies,” I say, hamming it up even more. I’ll make a fool of myself just to make her laugh.
She laughs some more and leans back on the couch. “You sure you’re qualified to be a poet? That was the worst line I’ve ever heard.”
“You were expecting something—”
“More poetic,” she says.
“Are you kidding? Most poems are about sex.”
She’s skeptical. “Do you have actual data to back that up? I wanna see some numbers.”
“Scientist!” I accuse.
“Poet!” she retorts.
We both smile, delighted and not trying to hide our delight from each other.
“Most poems I’ve seen are about love or sex or the stars. You poets are obsessed with stars. Falling stars. Shooting stars. Dying stars.”
“Stars are important,” I say, laughing.
“Sure, but why not more poems about the sun? The sun is also a star, and it’s our most important one. That alone should be worth a poem or two.”