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Andres D.S. Wilson

We sat on her bed, together but alone. She put the photos back on the nightstand --
a scrapbook from right-to-left, deserts and smiles, Israel, Russia, IDF uniforms and girls with dark curly hair. I paused and soaked in something new and exotic, taking in whiffs of her own dark curly hair and trying to guess which shampoo she used. There weren't any pictures of him, certainly a good sign. Enshrouded in pillows and posters of cute things, I coyly took my chance, pulling her hand into mine, lost in its softness, leaving a peck on her palm as an open promise. No visible response, but I held those tiny hands tighter and tighter, making my plea without squeezing, gazing out the window as if any other kiss were as far away as the moon or one of those constellations that I always mix up.

She went for it,

punching with her lips, her mouth closed but her eyes wide open, asking in eyelashes. Chris Martin's falsetto acted out my smiling silence, let it expand toward those very stars that seemed so distant. She slipped a smile but caught it right away, perhaps nervous it would become a hardy laugh. From what I knew of her, it seemed really out of character. Then, we leaned back on her bed, kissing but hardly knowing where it would lead, hardly caring, just being.

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