One.

It started with a side long glance. It started with a hand slid into another and fingers weaved together. It started in the back of a Chevy riddled with cigarette burns. You held me until morning and when we drove over state lines I had my naked feet on the dash and sang every song from the night before. You listened, too shy to sing along because you are always off key and you know I had perfect pitch. Damn, darling, if you only knew your voice would have been perfect. That pang in my ear would have plucked at my heart.

Two.

Through your window. On the roof with a bottle of gin. Can’t remember the brand. But it was cheap, cloudy. Air so humid water droplets formed on my skin. Even the storms that night couldn’t drive us in. Cold air, ripped sheets, soaking in body heat. You held me again. My elbow dug into your chest, but you pulled me closer until I was flat against you. My hair stuck to your face, but you didn’t stop to comb it back. You just kissed me in the rain. You kissed me and I wanted to punch you. I wanted you to know I felt it. But I didn’t.

Three.

Confessional. I don’t know how we ended up there of all places but behind that door with the cross, I felt you up. My hands didn’t hesitate and that made you laugh. We were hot, all untucked shirts and fucked up hair. Pressed against each other, we exchanged bites and bruises. I licked you and rubbed against your chest, but I didn’t let you undress me. Even as I skimmed your skin with my fingertips, even as I dared to go lower, I made sure your hands were on my hips. You scared me. You held me when I stopped and buried my head in your shoulder. Over the hymns of the mass you told me you loved me.