Stretched across the front seat of the car, he fought with my belt - trying to re-fasten it. Whenever I tried to help he playfully slapped my hand away. Ever the independent, he finally got it and cupped his hand against my hip.
The lights had gone off in the house we were parked in front of and my friends had long ago quit asking where I had disappeared to. The last shot of tequila was buzzing between my eardrums, giving everything a fuzzy quality. But when he tipped my chin up so he was looking me in the eyes, I heard him perfectly.
I love you. You know that?
Maybe it should have been a statement, but he was definitely asking. So I nodded. And when he bent over me I tasted the rum and final cigarette before our mouths even met. It wasn't until his tongue collided with mine that I found the other flavors.
At first I thought it was just fear. But then there was desire. And passion. And wonder. And caution. And as the space between us closed and opened, closed and opened, closed and opened, I figured it out.
It was honesty. He tasted just like truth.
When he dropped me off later, our clothes finally put back in the proper order and position, he let me get out of the car without a word. Just as I was about to shut the door he said my name.
I slid back across the seat and kissed him hard and deep, my hand on the side of his face, willing him to stay. The need for breath broke us though.
I told him that I loved him, too - whispered it right into his mouth.
I wanted him to know that we tasted the same.
