The only boy I ever kissed had peppermint breath and that was the first time the first boy I ever loved broke a bit of my dream. I had, because, dreamt of an impromptu gesture, of awkwardness and shy movements. Of how sailors kiss and comfortable couches, of slow dancing or Chinese take out lunches. I glued shut my eyes and let it happen because to watch how I had it imagined shatter was not what I wanted. He had, however, stolen moments from my wishes and twisted them around with a pre-planned display of the time we had shared together. And I to this day will never get over, how the taste of peppermint and mouth fresheners is bitter to my pallet and piercing to my heart because the first boy I ever kissed tore the pages apart.
In the littlest of ways, he had shown, how our story would be and hence I have grown. I sit in bed and write today, of a teenager’s sorrow and thoughtless years spend invested in one boy who knew not of my fears. I feared few but the ones I did, knew exactly how to bring to life, the nightmares that lay deep seeded. And he did know how to water my distress. With traces of wreckage and forecasts of storms, a few more days were spent within the reach of each other’s arms.
But what could it mean, for one little girl, to pour out all that she then had to one little boy who couldn’t all that hold. It meant afternoons of gloom and even years later, a woeful moon. But one minty kiss and a halfhearted embrace had taught a little girl of insipid attachment and shallow breath. And now there are no more dreams of sudden endearment for all ache and all healing is a carefully devised ruse that writers wring out for days to go. And I shall tell the story of how my first kiss went a little like this.