The Movie Kiss

By Margaret Firebaugh

I don't know why the images seduce me, but they do. Skin touching Gore-Tex. Gore-Tex touching cotton and hair and heartbeat. Can I hold someone next to me; an image; a knot of what burns in my chest and my head. Pushing the knots away or letting them burrow through my flesh, it makes no difference what my will decides. The intellect that lectures my being for asking what I do. I want. And that may be all that matters. Fighting the urge to make poetry of prose, I wonder at the possibility of anyone ever waking from the dreamy half-life.

I hate the movies, but I'm sick, addicted to that blank grin that symbolizes he-loves-me-too. It's all a fairy tale. Hello. Nobody loves anybody else "too," or ever has. Stop thinking that way. I still watch the movies. Compulsively. That smile. Anyone's smile. Braces. Buckteeth. No teeth. I want that smile. I want the reassurance of returning sublimity, to stop constantly screwing myself. I know that the best thing that might happen is a hug, and the best thing that tugs mercilessly at my nerve-endings is the kiss. The dream kiss. The movie kiss. Would it reassure; would it pique my curiosity. How much before I'm satisfied? How insatiable the void?

Of course, I am still happy. The longing gets shoved into the cracks of my lonely consciousness and I do smile and say cheese. It isn't what I want to be doing. The fear isn't what I want to think of. Will he squirm if I give in to myself and kiss that pale cheek? Will he pull away and look at me terrified? Never try it, I tell myself. You guess wrong, you'll ruin what he isn't scared of. Not much. Why isn't the hug, the shoulder enough to lean on. Looking for more. Don't let the fear and longing take over. But they already have. Except that I live still. Listening to music, watching TV, I even do my homework.

Something's missing. I need some chocolate; I need a Pop-Tart; I need somebody to let me kiss him. Why not? Why is it like this? Him, out of all the possible guys in the world.

I want a boyfriend almost as much as I want to see Pearl Jam in concert, but the thought of anyone else is unbearable.

Did I work myself up to this? He loves me. He loves me not. A daisy or a star or birthday candles; it doesn't MATTER. Give it up. I should move to India and become an ascetic, get a job in Japan until I can speak like a nihon-jin, study the bonobos in Africa, just to forget about him. Is there any other way?

I want that smile. No teeth. Buckteeth. Braces. Anyone's smile. That smile. Compulsively. I still watch the movies.

Margaret (Mary) Firebaugh attends Garfield High School in Seattle, Washington. She is the Web Mistress for her school's literary magazine <www.thepen.0catch.com>. Margaret is sixteen. She has a driver's license, but not a boyfriend. When not writing, she may be found talking to chimpanzees, wandering the forests in search of trillium, and holding illegal bake sales at school. Visit her website <www.angelfire.com/wa2/uchi>, and she will send you good vibes.