“Strange – ” I whispered, trying to smuggle some cold air up into my nostrils, past the ruffle of her unruly, lemongrass scented mess of an afro.

“What is?” She remained snuggled into my scrawny frame, sharing the fleece blanket to shield us from the biting winter breeze on the patio. Frankly, it was as effective as dressing a bullet wound with a band-aid.

“Your dandruff,” I replied, still reeling from the remnants of tetrahydrocannabinol shimmying along in my brain cells. “It actually tastes good.” Apparently, the only segue I had out of awkward silences was my penchant for even more awkward absurdities.

She giggled. Torrentially. As if one giggle dominoed into another. Lying there on the couch in the patio, it seemed that even the freezing weather could not reign in her laughter. Or my hormones, for that matter. We were spooning, curled in a concentric fetal position, while my thoughts raced about frantically, wondering if she could feel my bulge on her behind. Or my heartbeat racing even faster than said thoughts. And the thoughts were fast, they were. I cursed myself for making the culinary dandruff comment while ruminating on the cultural implications of referencing cutlery to insinuate intimate positions of cuddling.

Still gurgling with chuckles, she turns around to face me, which, given the diminutive size of the couch, makes for awkward positioning. We knocked knees a few times before settling for a position that no cutlery would be able to pull off successfully. I snuck one arm under her neck and another over her, in a claustrophobic attempt at bringing her in closer.

She didn’t put much of a fight.

“Come here.” I insisted. I don’t do insisting very well. In fact, insistence and assertion are barely even tenets of my personality. I kissed her.

In a lifetime of sequentially clumsier hook-ups with women, I have found that I am not a romantic at all. My eyes stay open and I find moaning pretentious. As a result, most of my thoughts revolve around the texture of her lips, the weight of her tongue, the pattern of her breathing, her possible train of thought and its passengers on board – all the while trying my best not to recreate my embarrassing first kiss in high school where most of the so-called kissing involved less français and more abhorrently clumsy collision of teeth.

[might be continued]