The July sun sprayed the brick alcove we were sitting in, turning the trees into green flags against the sky. His gray eyes were the closest thing we had to the fog rolling over the ocean of the coastal cities from which we both came; we lived 40 minutes apart and yet traveled 400 miles to meet each other. I was meant for this.
I had known him for two weeks, give or take a conversation or three. Before I was consciously thinking of him, my body was; the day after we met, I found myself feeling a sugary high of lust for his mouth. A shocking lust, a surprising lust—after all, I was still committed to my back-home boyfriend, committed to spending six weeks with these new things and new people and then returning home to welcome boyfriend arms. I watched this new boy's gray eyes sparkle, felt myself break into laughter more real than any 'I love you' said in the months before meeting him, and asked myself, Am I already that gone?
A week after I'd met him, I made the phone call: "No, no...don't be happy to hear from me..." It was one of the worst things I have ever done. It hurt, realising that the past two years had been full of lies and blind hope, but it's better this way. Yes, better. The future shone.
Then, that day. We woke up that morning and fell a little further down. Our conversation was superficial, both of us high-strung and nervous. I am sorry but when you were talking I was admiring the shape of your lips and evaluating their kissability. The neglected coffee sitting on the step next to us sweated drops of condensation as time slid to a stop, and the world started revolving around the heat I felt.
Not even in Idaho is the sun that hot at 8 am.
My first kiss, my very first kiss, was at thirteen. The ocean wind tangled my hair around his fingers, and his tongue was soft and wet and tasted faintly of potato chips. My second first kiss was shy and awkward; it took a few kisses' practice to fall into each other's rhythms.
But there, with him, with the morning sun still light and fresh, soaking into our hair like the happiness that was melting into every cell of my body, with him was bliss. We were puzzle pieces. I folded myself against his side and squinted against the sun so I could watch the light sparkle off his russet lashes; he pushed all the thoughts in my head away with his hand on my neck and I was suddenly no longer sure if the burn in my cheeks was from the UV rays or from the cells in my body all shaking and cheering at once, celebrating this one complete moment.
It was the first kiss that felt like a first kiss. His mouth was warm, his arm strong around my waist, his fingers brushing soft against my neck and collarbone. Fingers slide together and, I am so alive.
There were kisses afterward, and touches, and shy looks from behind lashes and stolen moments and sweet peals of laughter but nothing matches the innocent first.
You fall or fly every second, and a part of me is still soaring in the Idaho skies, lips still touched with fire, remembering the dappled shadows on the brickwork and the sun full on my face as I tasted perfection, as we shoved away the broad daylight in the glare of the sun and the world.
I have never believed in love at first sight, but I believe in synchronicity. I don't believe in a soulmate, but I believe that people get lucky sometimes. And sometimes I wonder, how long does it take to fall in love?