First Kiss

I was thinking, what if we were in a room where the walls were made of highly polished spoons? You and I in the center, our faces reflected back to us thousands of times, warped, stretched, exaggerated, pictures of our held hands when you tilt your head a certain way. My face is an inch away from your face. Being this close to someone is as bad as being hundreds of miles away when you don’t know if that last inch is a distance you can travel. I could make the leap, make you uncomfortable, make you turn your head away. Or I could stay here, gradually fall asleep listening to your breaths, wondering what would happen if our lips touched in our sleep. But I do neither. I ask, “can I kiss you?” and my body freezes for a second in the overheated room while I wait for the spoken response that doesn’t come. You nod instead. I jump a thousand miles in a single step and my lips are on yours for what I can already tell will not be the last time. And as we kiss in the small, enclosed space the bright faces of the spoons dull. First those closest to us, on the floor. Their bowls fog over quickly, muting the colors in the reflections, distorting them like I took off my glasses and nothing has distinct edges any more. And we kiss until even the ceiling isn’t shiny any more and it’s you and me kissing in a white room.