09.04.01
A friend of mine was awash in bitterness and regret about failed past relationships, mulling over what had gone wrong, and what might have been done better.
I couldn't really understand why -- I told him that I didn't really like to bear grudges, that I had better wastes of my time than to rethink how I could have saved crippled couplehoods that were desperately determined to fail.
He laughed, and told me that things were different in his life.
At some strange point in our relationship, a long time in the past, we had both been deeply upset about being dumped, and had connoitered to commiserate over Sisters of Mercy and, most likely -- at least on my end, alcohol.
We ended up kissing, ardently devouring each other's lips in an attempt to obliterate our separate heartaches, fingers digging into each other's skin, my fingernails raking the tender flesh of his back, which is amazing in and of itself because I don't generally have fingernails long or strong enough with which to accomplish any level of back-raking.
We kissed just long enough to abrade and/or chafe each other's skin, and then lapsed into pathetic giggles. We knew each other too well as friends, and looked at each other like brother and sister.
It felt strange and incestuous.
It felt wrong.
And the uncomfortable laughter was a cover for the discomfort we felt.
I never considered it a significant incident in my life, perhaps because of the strangeness of it all, perhaps because of the briefness of the encounter. So, I asked him why he considered that moment significant among all others.
Strangely, I came to discover that I was the fourth girl he'd ever kissed, and he considered that special and rare. I hold a place as the fourth significant girl in his life.
Hell, I don't even know how many people I've kissed, passionately-speaking.
Hundreds? Most likely.
Certainly not thousands, but a hell of a lot.
And I regret very few.
