The Moment you Know…
-After Sean Carswell
When you walk into your second period English Lit. class on tender
teenage legs with nothing but fifteen years of angst to live up to
and you take the blue plastic seat in the back near the row
of huge sun-filtering windows, you fix a decidedly nonchalant look
on your face (though English is your favorite class) then she
walks in, your friend (and more…?), and takes the seat next to you
and you realize since she arrived you’ve held
your breath.
When she grabs your sweaty palm, smiles at you mischievously and drags you
to the empty girls bathroom; you sit on top of the dirty fifty-year-old radiator
and act cool and collected when really you’re all bundled nerves.
She sits next to you, legs crossed and lights a thin cigarette, recounts
some story that you only half listen to, because her thigh is pressed
against yours and she leaning conspiratorially into you. Her voice
becomes indistinct echoes and all you want to do is swallow kisses
from her neck or brush your suddenly dry lips against her
still moving ones. She asks, through thin smoke trails, “Are you listening?”
the only answer you can give is an ever-reddening blush.
When your best friend asks you to deliver his hastily written love note
and you jealously do, not because you’re a great friend, but you’re curious
what did he write? what will she say? and why are you feeling this way?
After she reads it, she laughs and you laugh too, she shakes her head
and you shrug, walk back to him trying not to be a happy bearer of bad news.
When she’s got you alone in her boat of a car, outside your house
and you both stall for time and then she gently kisses you, instantly
you increase her momentary boldness, as you break moments later, breathless
her smile reaches her eyes and she knows and you know she knows
you know.
