CAMP |
Do you want to try it? she asked, to see what it’s like? At camp for the fourth year in a row, suddenly we were looking at the boys more than our music. In the shared bathroom, If it’s yellow, let it mellow! signs were plastered on the door of every stall. It was late—long after lights out. But she & I never could sleep. & that night was no different. We had slow danced with boys for the very first time & I still felt the echo of clammy hands on my hips, the boy they belonged to long forgotten by now. I felt myself wondering how it might have felt had he & I kissed. We were talking about that. & she played the flute & swore it made her a better kisser, smirking, I can hold my breath longer. & I argued, But I play piano. That proves I have strong hands. Even then we knew the power of hands, how good it felt when we scratched each other’s backs before bed. & then she looked down at my hands, all long fingers & torn cuticles & nails cut short to keep from butchering Chopin by clicking against the keys. She bit her lip. -Do you want to try it? -Try what? -You know. To see what it’s like. She hopped down from the counter, wiping away what water had soaked through her sweats. She stepped forward, so close I smelled her mosquito repellant. I cracked my knuckles, unable to stop once I began. She trained her eyes on mine. I don’t know how. She licked her lipglossed lips, shrugged. Stepped closer. & closer. I lifted my hand to her cheek—what I’d seen my mother do to my father on their good mornings. We were exchanging air: my breath in her lungs, her taste in my mouth. & then our licked lips touched. Our hard teeth. & then her tongue was in my mouth. & mine in hers, my boyish hands keeping her body close, her hoarse breath caught in my throat. The music, the theory, the wandering hands. This touch. |