The first time we kissed, it was the safest I’d ever felt in another’s skin. We weren’t in love. We just thought we were. He burnt his language into my skin.
I think, if I hadn’t been so cranky at the random guy and his archaic gin misogyny, or if the friend who’d brought me hadn’t wandered off to talk to her other friends, I’d have waited for Femi to come back with my drink and had a perfectly nice, safe evening.
My first kiss was wet and horrible and I spent the whole time trying desperately to remember whether I’d remembered to brush my tongue that morning or not.