supplicium post mortem

Louis was a senior when I was a sophomore. His were the first male lips that kissed mine. Ok, it was onstage in Cinderella, but we did have to hold it for twelve bongs of the clock. At the first rehearsal I was so scared that I kept bursting into giggles and flinching away when the kiss came. He tried to put me at ease. His lips were chapped. He never tried to open his mouth. On closing night, I started to like it.

We both skipped lunch every day to do homework in the library. In reality we talked, anything and everything, his navy blue eyes as open as the sea. I wanted to feel those chapped lips again, but he was dating a girl called Koozie. No one understood. He was smarter than anyone in our high-school of 4000. She, apparently, was a ditz. He told me things he’d never told anyone – about his brother’s mental illness, about his longing to live as a monk back in time on Lindisfarne, painting illuminated manuscripts in the scriptorium, the world cut off in a tidal cloister, ocean lapping at the pebbles, chant de-rattling his nerves. I picked at the stitching of my LeSportSac purse and exercised restraint, day after day. He liked me, lots. He could undress before me in that library as with no one. I had the mind and the heart to match him, but Koozie was the girl he wanted to kiss. I was doomed to Just Friends.

Read other folks writing this week:

• Rafi
• Travis King
• PapaTomLA
• Nettagyrl

A stern note: I have noticed that several people [cough, cdm] have grown slothful in their ways and have begun regularly to abuse the deadline for Flash Fiction Friday, as generous as it is. This will never do. Be advised, therefore, that as from next week, late entries for 3f will incur automatic whacking. No exceptions! [cough - casey!]