We kissed all night, sleeping in fits and starts, then woke up to kiss some more …
Heath was down BK way to hang with Sarah B (internet superstars keep to their own, apparently). We rendezvoused. I don’t remember the pretense. I seem to recall that it had something to do a pajama party. But there they were, Bloggeratti Extraordinaire, tossing back two lemon drops to every one of my dirty martinis. Next thing I know, we’re all bombed, blogging from my Hell’s Kitchen laptop:
- [11.9.03 3:00] — It’s 3 a.m. Que Sera Sera and Fish are in the hizza. And we are all bombed. Which is fun.
BW: I’m wearing Fish’s pajamas.
FISH: Drunk Fish. Thank God for typing lessons in the 8th grade, and thank God for vodka. Sara B and Benjamin have seen just how long my Laura Ingalls hair is and just how many lemon drops can drink. Sarah B might convert me to lesbianism and Benjamin might make me believe boys should wear pink.
You get the idea. It was a giggly, silly, and perfectly appropriate start to a giggly, silly, and perfect relationship.
Until bedtime.
We were piled into bed together, Heather, Sarah, and me, but, God Bless Sarah (and God Bless her for not mocking us since) for repairing to the living room futon.
I remember knowing it was about to happen. We were too close, talking too softly for it not to. I was torn by attraction/aversion. Not because Heather is anything less than beautiful, or anything less than desperately attractive (have you ever sat in a meadow of dew-kissed mountain wild flowers? That’s how delicious Heather smells), I just knew better.
I mean, at this point, so do you. But we’re going to anyway …
I am centimeters from her face. Her smile slips away. She is straight faced. Her eyes are dark. And it happens. We kiss slowly, patiently. Her lips are soft. It is gentle, and sustained, and sweet …
Heather had a train to catch in the morning. The three of us walked to the subway. I was a little shell-shocked — had I just gotten myself into a long-distance relationship, again!?! — but I kept right on smiling. I hugged Sarah, who passed through the turnstile and left Heath and I alone.
Heather looked up at me with an expression that I’ve seen dozens of times since: her eyebrows lift, her forehead furrows, and her lips pucker. She is vulnerable. And for me, that’s just a little bit scary.
Tomorrow: The Meltdown
Holy crap, you are a poet.
Holy Moly, I forgot you were guest blogging and was reading, well…
I could just tell from her writing that she smells like flowers. (I’m sensitive like that.) Just like I can tell that Sarah B. smells like peppermint schnapps. Which is also good.
Man, was that cornfusing. Shame on me for not paying better attention. Scandal replaced by “Doh!”
Good job buddy keep it up and you could be the next Jay leno after fish gets so famous she will have no time for us.
How about a bed time Haiku?
as long as i’m guest-posting for jen while she and fish are gallavanting across morocco, i almost want to guest-comment for her as well, because this post is BEGGING for her to respond with, “kissing fish was like that for me, too…”
Wait – what was that about Burger King?
“Biddys in the BK lounge…”
BK = Brooklyn
This is simply wonderful. I am loving the Fish from and outside perspective. Thank you.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
sizzle! What next!?!!
I smell like peppermint schnapps? WTF? Could someone who knows me please back me up here? Unless I do actually smell like peppermint schnapps.
Well, that’s what happens when you start borrowing sleepwear off attractive friends. I’m sure the universe has this law written down somewhere.
Great story, can’t wait to read more.
You’re going to make us wait???
GAH!@
“Meadow of dew-kissed mountain wild flowers?!!” Wow—when Fish gets back she has to reveal what perfume or combination of potions she uses to get that fragrance. Inquiring minds want to know.
Sarah B does NOT actually smell like peppermint schnapps…. more like Pink Ladies and Sharpies.