Dear *Joshua,

It was yesterday.

Well, technically the wee hours of February 1st, but I digress. I seem to digress a lot in my posts. But I digress.

It was my kissaversary, a.k.a. the anniversary of my first kiss.

It’s nearly impossible to forget your first kiss. I used to fantasized about the moment our lips would meet. It’d be magical, awesome, amazing. Life changing.

Picture it. Small town, Canada. Nightfall. Music. Candles. On a birthday cake. In other words, a friend’s birthday party. However, there was the inevitable wait prior to the party, and I don’t mean the powder room.

Pages and pages, years and years of junior high diary entries. Pondering: “Will Joshua kiss me today?” and “Maybe I should kiss him” and “Oh, God, I’m going to die if Joshua doesn’t kiss me.”

Somehow I survived grade seven. I lived through grade eight. Kissless. Entered grade nine. Without you. My desire to kiss anyone died. But our story carried on, and we reconciled in grade ten. And I waited and waited. Seriously, you kissed other girls. What was the big deal? Just kiss me.

There was the night when I almost had my first kiss. But it was more of a railroad accident. Nervous, we were saying goodnight. I could hear the train. We both wore braces, and your slightly-parted lips approached mine. I leaned. Mouth closed. Then open – like a baby chickadee. We clanged. It was legit metal-on-metal.

“Maybe next time?” you said, and you kissed my cheek and walked through the long solarium. And I felt like an dork. Who doesn’t know how to kiss? Oh, yeah. Someone who has never been kissed.

I resided with the fact I’d die a kiss-virgin. You and I would have a hand-holding, happily ever after. And probably adopt.

The night of that birthday party? That would be different. That would be the moment. Fireworks. Explosions. Unicorns. I mean, streamers. You were leaving. I walked you to the foyer. You leaned, and …

… damn it. Same result as last time. Except your braces were off. I stepped away. Embarrassed. Thinking, “Maybe this isn’t for me,” and I considered becoming a nun like one of my aunts.

However, you said “Let’s try that again.”

And … finally. I won’t get all Harlequin, and be like “your lips melted onto mine as we meshed together under the moonlight.”

It was our first kiss. The only moonlight was a sliver shining through the stained-glass window. Was it mind-blowing? To the extent that I waited for four years for you to kiss me? Anticipation-wise, yes. You were gentle, sweet and minty, and I was convinced after a thirty-second kiss we were going to last forever.

But we didn’t last forever. That summer, we broke up. Thus continuing our off and on relationship. Hanging on like a cat’s claws to a tree until the night we ended – for good, for real. The night we ended, I tried to kiss you, but – empty and hollow – you refused to reciprocate. In a millisecond, you killed me. Our first kiss? You made me feel loved and wanted. But the night you dumped me, I felt like trash on the side of the gravel road you left me on.

All I had were memories, mementos, photos. And a diary, documenting that first kiss, measured against every guy I kissed like a high-jump standard. Some barely made the mark. A few were awarded merit. And a couple rarities vaulted over the pole.

But we did have one last-first kiss. We were broken up. If I drank, I would swear intoxication. It was an emotional time. John Candy died. Then Kurt Cobain took his life. Our class was super emotionally wrecked.

You and I drove around until the wee hours of the morning. Talking, laughing, crying. And you kissed me under the moonlight. That’s the first kiss I want to remember.

Our last kiss.

Always,

Tessa

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*Name changed for privacy