Our story together began on a slinky July afternoon at a hipster coffeehouse. I met him when I got up to play the jukebox. He sidled up to me, handed over a dollar bill and told me what song to play.
I said, “Don’t tell me what to do. That’s rude.” Besides, I’d already chosen that song.
He told me I had great taste.
I said he did too.
By the time he walked me to the parking lot, I already knew he would be my boyfriend someday.
He pressed me up against my father’s Buick, the metal hot enough to scorch my skin through the thin fabric of my sundress. When I squirmed, he pushed harder. The air was heavy with humidity, my shoulders were pink, both of us slick with sweat.
His kisses destroyed me. They burned — actually burned — as if his lips were formed from lava flows instead of cherry Chapstick. His tongue tasted like coffee and clove cigarettes.
I sank into the fire.
He handed me a torn cocktail napkin with the number of his friend’s place, where he was crashing on the couch for a little while.
There were already so many red flags, I was practically looking at a communist rally. I should have known better than to fall for the first broken man with a dollar and a request for “Regret.”
But back then, all of it was still new and good. I must have played “Regret” 50 times that night, taking one line of the song, holding it in my hand and polishing it like silver.
“You were a complete stranger, now you are mine.”
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This post is part of the Scintilla Project, a fortnight of storytelling. It’s not to late to jump in!
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