Finding the Rhythm

New love is like waking up. At first you’re still half alseep. Your love is just a random collection of moments loosely tied together with sunlight, literature and afternoon coffee runs. But after a while, you begin to notice a rhythm. It’s vague and a bit disconcerting, but there’s a definite shape to it. You proclaim your philosophies with both a shyness and a ferocity. You boldly assert-yourself, because you know that if you don’t you’ll become dangerously infatuated with a reflection that is not your own. She’s marvelous. A goddess. And probably straight.

It’s summer. The grass is green. You’re on the edge of adulthood, of certainty. And froliking has become your thing. Full of unclaimed ecstasy, together you tumble through the field outside your highschool. You’re excited for a chance to show off your fifth grade gymnastics skills. It takes a few tries, but you finally manage a sloppy no-handed-cartwheel. She, who wrote a whole novel over the first couple months of quarantine, is jealous. You feel big, almost too big. The sun sets, and slowly, through the dusk, into the dark, she walks you home.

You kiss in November. By then, your friendship is intimate enough that she has penetrated your Covid bubble. You both agree the kiss is a disaster, but you eat oatmeal and dance and love each other anyway.