Never Been Kissed

Van chuckles. “I’d hold you back. My chest against your back and make sure you didn’t pass the sensor.” The words are innocent and yet it’s like hard core porn when you’ve been told you can’t have any contact. I’m picturing him doing exactly that. He’s warm against my skin. I’d wear a summer dress and let his hands skim up my thighs teasing with the flounce.

I didn’t know he was an art major before switching to advertising. He tells me he has paintings he wants to show me and my trained eye in graphic arts salivates for the moment we can. He weaves art history into a fairytale making me feel like I’m a part of his world. We fall asleep together as he tells me the history of the paintings and I imagine holding hands as I clutch mine together under the sheets.

8

Van

“Do you think I could fit a patch of grass up here?” I point to my roof top area. I want her to tell me her secrets, deepest fears, and things she wishes for, but for now I’ll settle for our daily banter.

“What for?”

I shrug. “I’m thinking of getting a goat. You never know how long this is going to last and I might want milk or cheese.”

“Maybe even a garden?” She muses flopping back on her bed teasing me. I see the peak of pink Barbie sheets and bite my tongue from teasing her.

“Rooftop gardens are a thing.”

She isn’t taking me seriously at all. “Okay Farmer Ward and then what?”

“I’ll start a business and charge a thousand bucks a strawberry.” I cross my arms totally serious as I think about the long-term logistics.

“So you’re a fruit scalper then?”

“No. I’d give you my entire harvest.” I would give her anything she asked of me and more. Her words make me melt like ice cream on a hot summer day. Slow and a little lazy waiting for the next sweet drop. What would I do with strawberries anyway? It felt like our conversation about berries was in fact not about berries at all and I didn’t know how to process that.

“And then what?”

“You’d make me a jam and we’d trade it for whatever we needed.” I’d bargain quite a bit to hold her in my arms.

“So you think I know how to make jam?”

“What’s a little sugar and lemon.” I play it off as no big deal but my mind drifts toward naughty fantasies I shouldn’t be having right now.

“Sugar I have, lemons I do not.”

“Ah, but I might be able to help you out,” I wink. “Though you’d be indebted to me for sure.”

She gives me an exasperated look I adore. “You do not have lemons.”

“Wanna see mine?” I leave the screen for a moment before she can say no. Of course I got them, but I’d send her every single one because I hate the fact we’re separated by water, steel, glass, and about million dollars give or take.

She shouts over the screen, “Okay, you better be talking about lemons and not something else.”

“Alright. Proof of citrus.” I drag over a small tree inside a bucket. It’s a Myer Lemon tree my dad sent me one Christmas and I’ve kept it alive somehow. I pluck one off the tree grinning.

Her hand reaches for the lemon transfixed. Laurel murmurs, “I’ll make you jam.”

“I’m gonna hold you to it, Laurel.” My throat constricts and I’d rather I was holding her.

“I’ll bring my A game to the jam party.”

“Good night. I’ll miss your pretty face.”

“I’ll miss yours too.” We end our call and the pit of loneliness returns. It’s not as bad as the day before or the day before that, but I feel like I’m barely hanging on sometimes and Laurel is the only thread holding me together. I think I love this woman and I hope she might be growing to love me too.

9

Laurel