Smitten Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
There was a sense of great urgency about them as they looked for a
place to make out. There was a sense that the moment was fleeting and that it
would pass at any moment. Young love, or more appropriately young lust, had a
flash-in-the-pan quality to it. They both could tell. They needed to have this
kiss and they needed to have it soon or else the moment would be lost and they
would be ruined together.
Jesse was twenty-one and Chrissie was twenty-two, but they felt
like they were fourteen again, possessed by overwhelming passions and lusts
that needed to be quenched or expired before they grew too great.
He intertwined his fingers with hers and pulled her arm back so
that it wrapped behind her back. He tightened his grip and pulled her close to
him. He thought for a moment that this must not be comfortable for her. It
wasn’t all that comfortable for him. But that might be a good thing. He could
feel it, so she must have been able to feel it too. Him at her side. She would
be aware that he was causing this discomfort for her. He would be at the top of
her thoughts, obviously. He had created this moment. It would heighten her
anticipation. It would keep her focused on him. It would create power and
struggle and dominance and the desire for release and reward.
They hurried. Time was running out.
They had met three hours earlier that night at the opening of a
friend’s art gallery in the back room of a comic book store. There had been
wine and casual conversations. She had been just the right amount sarcastic and
he had been playfully dismissive. They had fun from the first instant.
But the conversations had lasted too long and the alcohol was
wearing off and they weren’t sure if the moment had been real enough on its own
to sustain itself.
They hurried. They needed to find a place that was somewhat
private.
It was night and the neighborhood wasn’t busy, but there were
still too many people out and about. Jesse wasn’t an exhibitionist. Although,
he thought, if she was, then maybe he would try it. Maybe he should say something.
Maybe he should ask her. But if he did he might ruin the moment, so he kept his
mouth shut for the moment.
He turned to look at her. He didn’t say a word; he just put his
free hand behind her head so that his thumb could run along her ear. She smiled.
He smiled back. He wondered if this was her tacit permission for him to
proceed. Maybe she didn’t mind the public display. He leaned in and she pulled
back.
“The people…”
“I hate people.”
He pulled her along as they tried to find another place to go. They
rounded a corner and a man was outside trimming his hedges for some reason. Who
trimmed hedges at night? They found a shadowy spot down the block and he leaned
her against a tree, but then a car drove by, shining its headlights in their
faces.
“Come on!” he groaned in protest.
“All of these people.”
“I hate people so much.”
There was a quiet desperation in their eyes when they looked at
each other. They both knew the night was drawing to an end. They both knew
their time was running out. If only one of them had driven. If only one of them
had lived closer. If only, if only.
He grabbed her hand and ran. They ran. They sprinted. It was
madness, but they were both convinced this was the only way. They had nowhere
to go. They both knew it. Out of breath, not sure what to do, he stopped. They
gasped for air, but before she could catch her breath, he pulled her close and
kissed her. He felt her body react. He had made it. It had worked. Everything
was going to be just fine.
Then there were footsteps. There was conversation. There was a
group of people.
The kissing stopped and the embarrassed looks began.
“People!” he griped in great disgust.
“People.”
The people walked past them, pretending not to have noticed what
had been going on.
“You want to try somewhere else?”
“Yeah. It’s bound to work one of these times, right? There can’t
be people everywhere.”
They hurried off, in search of another little bit of solitude.
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