Once, I kissed a man and he sighed. He sighed like someone who had been thirsty for a very long time and I’d just given him water from my canteen. Siiiiiiigh. I decided right then I’d kiss him a hundred times just to hear that sound.
Once, I kissed a man and learned to hate the sound of my refrigerator. I cried all the way back to Connecticut, mourning, because I knew that kiss was burned into me. Tattooed. Cigarette on flesh. And I knew that we were destined to fail. I kissed him a hundred times after.
Then we failed.
Once, I kissed a stranger. Sangria and beer laced with Jack Daniels. Hostel common room. Belt buckles and a foreign name like I was praying.
Once, I kissed him in the third row of a movie theater. And then decided I would rather watch the movie. I kissed her passing jell-o shots. Once, I kissed and didn’t feel a thing except saliva and dry skin and the need to go home right now. I kissed him while the credits to Clueless rolled. I felt adored.
I wasn’t.
Once, I kissed – I was kissed – in front of a map of the world. Here, I said. Is where I lived. Here, he said, is where I’m from. Spain. Lebanon. I had to sit down on the bed, dizzy and overwhelmed. He had the most gorgeous hands I’ve ever seen. We failed, too. Thank God.