Summer Love

He played her Coltrane, and Marvin Gaye songs she’d never heard before. He was the first man who’d ever held her hand in public. She talked, and talked…nervously, and at times incessantly. And he listened. And remembered.

He took her for long drives, and at each intersection and bend in the road, he told her a piece of his story. This went on for months, and by summer’s end she could hardly remember a time that she had not known him. With him, she’d journeyed so far past her past that she’d forgotten that her heart was broken.

He was tall, and strong, and night after night, nestled under his arm, she’d come to love the smell of his deodorant more than his cologne. It was bold, and musky, and fresh. And sometimes when she’d turn over on nights he wasn’t there, she’d catch a whiff of his lingering scent. Pillow jammed between her legs – she remembered his weight on top of her.

He tried to teach her to kiss – to turn her quick, noisy pecks to gentle, quiet brushes. But she was always too awkward, and too unsure of herself. Sometimes, with a few glasses of wine, and the right Raheem DeVaughn track, she’d get it right. But mostly, her smooches were exercises in finding her safe place with him.

He convinced her to say “I love you.” And he reciprocated. “I love you, too,” was like a magician saying abracadabra. Everything that happened after that moment challenged what she had believed.

He convinced her to say “I love you.”

She had to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him. She adored this. The last guy she’d loved looked her in the eye when she wore heels. And her thighs were thicker than his. She’d never liked the feel of his thin calves against hers.

He thought it was cool that she was a writer. And sometimes, she’d be talking, and he’d stop her mid-sentence to tell her how pretty her thought she was. This made her blush, and gave her butterflies, and forget what she’d been saying.

And when they would argue, she’d always cry and think it was over. But that night he’d call and tell her to come open the door. And without words, they’d settle into bed. With each inhale, she’d fall asleep comforted by his familiar scent.

He is not perfect. That’s why she loves him.