But that’s you. Not the you that rode down the Hudson River holding her grandfather’s hand. Not the you who insisted on doing nothing more than what you were meant to be doing—who insisted on living your life solely for yourself and no one else. Not the you that missed the city when you left and loved it when you arrived. You’re the you that now misses it when you arrive and loves it when you leave.
Aunty—a dancer, a deity.
I wish I learned how to say fuck you to things that make art harder. For now, I just meander until there’s no way forward, and then I say fuck you to the entire world. If I had learned, maybe then I would be in a different position. Maybe then I would be doing more than wishing Aunty a happy birthday and a happy new year every January and pretending to have the time of my life when she asks me how I’m doing.
when you both kissed—the end of it all for you.
The first time you kissed was behind the lid of a pizza box, in the furthest backseat of her mom’s van, en route to a movie.
It was clumsy, but you both leaned in with expectant smiles because this was nothing more than curiosity. This was nothing more than practice.
Her lips were overly wet, like she’d just had a glass of water or she’d just come out of the ocean. Yours were chapped and warped and broken. They always are.
The pizza box wasn’t big. You had to duck down to hide, so your moms all the way in the front wouldn’t see you.
It started delicately. You tried to slot your mouth against hers the way you saw people do so in the movies. It didn’t really work, but it was fine because you weren’t kissing for any sort of pleasure. You were kissing to kiss, to feel what it was like, to learn how to do it on each other rather than on your crushes or future boyfriends.