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UNTITLED (321 words)
I remember the first time we kissed. An unsatisfactory blending of my pickled onion Monster Munch and his chips and curry sauce. No tongues. We stayed in the shadows at the side of the house so my mum wouldn’t see us from the kitchen window. He wiped the drips from his nose on the sleeve of his Harrington jacket and tried to slide his hands under my jumper. It tickled and I laughed and he slipped on the icy path when he ran next door in the huff. We were fourteen.
I remember kissing in the play park late at night. He spun the roundabout so fast I felt I was falling even though I was lying down on warped wood and peeling paint. I screeched like a four-year old in a dizzying mix of fear and laughter and he knocked the air from my lungs when he fell on top of me as he jumped on. The kiss that night was a blend of half a can of Special and a bottle of Diamond White. I got bird poo on my brand-new jeans and he told me he was sick. The stars tumbled around me.
I kissed him the last time at the hospital, in a side-room with no windows; the beeps and whirrs of machinery silenced and his mother’s sobs receding down the corridor. I took an ice chip from the saucer on the bedside locker and ran it over my lips, then gently, oh so gently, pressed the coolness of my mouth against the dry, cracked riverbed of his, tasting the sweet smell of his decaying breath on my tongue. I breathed air into his mouth and prayed for just a moment longer to tell him I would love him forever and that we were going to have a son.
One of the many, many times I kissed him was on the roundabout where he was conceived.
- This reply was modified 3 years ago by Seagreen.