<body><script type="text/javascript"> function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) { if(window.addEventListener) { window.addEventListener('load', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false); } else { window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }); } } </script> <div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/plusone.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() { if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) { gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({ url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar.g?targetBlogID\x3d7917459\x26blogName\x3dfirstkissproject\x26publishMode\x3dPUBLISH_MODE_BLOGSPOT\x26navbarType\x3dBLACK\x26layoutType\x3dCLASSIC\x26searchRoot\x3dhttp://firstkissproject.blogspot.com/search\x26blogLocale\x3den_US\x26v\x3d2\x26homepageUrl\x3dhttp://firstkissproject.blogspot.com/\x26vt\x3d4021338945997668753', where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"), id: "navbar-iframe" }); } }); </script>

« Home | Next » | Next » | Next » | Next » | Next » | Next » | Next » | Next » | Next » | Next »

Ray Rubin

The boy at the corner gave me that look first. I was walking by on one of those painful winter days pinching your cheeks pink and your back hunches bracing the cold like a punch in a stomach. When his eyes first glanced in my direction, I thought he might be awaiting someone. He was tall and thin like a musician. His hair was dark and curly, his face pale. All he wore to keep warm was a blue scarf. His hands were shoved in his pockets. It was really too cold to wait even a seconds pause but his eyes caught mine in an awkward intimacy.

He locked his gaze on mine. Even if I wanted to tear myself away, my eyes were caught. I knew this happenstance quite well: A girl did not need to be prettier than a crow for a boy to stare. I knew that but my heart started pounding heavy bass and my cheeks flushed. If possible for them to redden even further, at that point rouge was a blush and my cheeks were deeper than Marilyn's blazing red.

The look barely lasted in time but it engraved my soul. I was more let down about the time than the deeper consequences. I walked quickly past the corner nearly tripping over the ice patches on the sidewalk. A strong wind soaked my bones and drenched my blood with its severity. I was nearly home and the "kiss" I had just received from a total stranger fleeted like the way it had come.

After some minutes of this death march, I was at my door at last fumbling in my purse for key. It was in the same pocket as last time I looked. My hands were stiff and iced cold. Getting that key in the lock felt warming - I was almost in.

Pushing open the door, my otherwise drafty place felt toasty like in a bakery. Shedding all the trappings and layers of winter, I found myself staring in the bathroom mirror. The fleeting thought had returned. I stood there just wondering about the boy. Why did he look at me? Am I even pretty? What did he see in me? However, most of all Why is my heart still beating with a rhythm of love.

Well, love is that, oh too over used word no one is sure if it is a verb, adjective or noun. It has lost its truth over time and has so many variations. The word has been overplayed in every chord and every darn creation tries to manipulate it theirs.

Love that word colored pink. I was still standing in thought when the doorbell rang. I tousled my hair around, made it look messy but good enough. I dapped on it a bit of my roommates' Vaseline that was lying around. Looking in that silver lined piece of glass I ran to answer the door. It was only my roommate.

She comes in bitter like old man winter from the cold. "Why are you all made up?" I tell her, "Oh no, I jut came in."

"No, you look like you are in love."

"Love- no. I just came running in from that Arctic chill. That's all."

She was not satisfied but she left me alone. She is a girl who read one too many romance novels and had a date at least twice a week. She wanted someone to commiserate with over the reality of love. I was a poor choice. In my first years of teaching I always looked like I was about to yell. My nerves were on edge and all I could think about was a weekend of sleep when no frustrated students would be at my throat. I went to bed early so I would be at my best for the kids but it did not help. Nightly, I would lie in bed and just think about all the things I wished to be or could not be. I had pity parties in bed. Lonely with my friends all dating and gibbering I kept myself awake with the thoughts of where else I could be. I became an insomniac and drunk over thoughts of the Himalayans, a low light bar with some jazz. I was beautiful, I was brazen, I was under those bright lights.

I woke up cranky and back in my bed with my blanket off my bed. No wonder I was cold.

My roommate's name was Draiza. She came from Australia and on every blistering damned cold day, she blamed me for my country's weather. She made herself an herbal tea and attributed it antibiotic powers. Good for her. I am glad she never gets sick. I want to get sick; I need a day off from those kids. While she kicked back with her holy drink I made myself a cup of chocolate milk, the one where you squeeze the chocolate syrup in the cup like 2/3 the way up and then add the milk.

Draiza listens to lots of spa style music - the kind where the men come chanting and where I do not know the instruments. She feels it is relaxing. I feel it grating but I keep quiet.

Draiza picks up where we left off when she first came in.

"Who is the guy?"

I think for a minute to tell her about the boy on the corner but on second thought, it was really nothing. For some girls it is as common as breathing but for me it felt like 'Spring Awakening' of something hidden, pretty and unknown.

Please keep entries to 500 words or fewer when possible. Your email address, and any other identifying information you choose, will be kept private. By submitting your story, you grant the First Kiss Project copyright and publicity rights. If you do not wish to grant the First Kiss Project these rights, it is suggested that you do not submit to this website. The First Kiss Project is all about sharing, but please don't steal these stories or use them as your own. Thanks.