I have never understood why Sandra enjoys this story as much as she does, but I suppose in a sense, we are all Sandra, dreaming of something we could have one day, perhaps, if only we are lucky enough.
I wish that is true. But—
She is wrong.
Everything beautiful dies.
2
The second time I kissed a boy, it meant nothing. Fleeting, the moment was as quickly gone as it had come. Looking over him, his pale face shining with the soft yellow light in the corner, I felt warmth and I felt fondness and I felt nothing, all rolled into one.
I owed him the world; I owed him less than nothing.
We were in the basement of his picket-fence house, watching reruns of an old show. He kissed me to the laugh track of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, his hands in places they shouldn’t have been. He felt snug against my skin, the thin white blanket draped precariously across our shoulders. I inched closer, feeling his warmth radiate against my body. He kissed me and he kissed me and he kissed me and it sent shivers across my body.