The stories always said that there would be fireworks. Even when she grew older and read different stories, they still told her that she'd think only of his touch. But it's a summer night and cold in the air conditioned-room, and she knows where she is. She knows that it's past midnight; she hears the ticking of the clock on the bookcase. She knows that the bay windows are before them, ans he feels the room's every light, painting, and doorway. She knows that he's kissing her, and her mind races faster than it ever has in her life. He's kissing her, she's being kissed, her first kiss, she's not a leper! Where does she put her arms, shouldn't it be more romantic than this, why is the television still on, that can't be good for the environment, can it?
She remembers the stories of fireworks; she remembers everything as he kisses her. She feels all the awkwardness of her youth, all the love she's ever spent, all her memories of the sea. She's surprised and a little angry when he speaks: "You can open your eyes, you know." She's mad because this is supposed to be a dream; neither of them should be able to think, let alone speak.
But she's thinking of everything; she can't help it, she can't stop.
It's a summer night. Her dress is blue and tight against her skin. He's kissing her. She can't stop thinking of the little things.
Time makes it easier. The television fades. She forgets about ocean waves, memories, and love. Kissing him grows easier, and she thinks even less as she loses herself to what is.
When she's balled on the rug in his sister's room the next morning, her body again all too alive and rushing with every thought, every touch, every emotion, she wonders if the moment really should be all that matters. Because she's just relived her life in one night, and that seems more real to her than any firework ever could.
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