the first person i ever kissed is dead now.
It’s one of my favorite anecdotes, shocking enough to get wide eyes, justified enough that I don’t seem like a total psychopath. To a circle of acquaintances, it’s a gauge to see how strange they’re willing to be. To close friends, it’s a reminder of how unlucky in love I’ve been. To potential partners, a warning: being with me is dangerous, maybe even deadly. Yet, the evidence bears none of that out. They soon all find girlfriends and wives they’re much prouder to be with. They become the truest versions of themselves after knowing me. They find themselves on a random Thursday wondering if there’s still a heart to beat for me. They stop replying in the hope I have too much pride to ever say anything. And where am I? Same as ever, wondering if there’ll ever be a boyfriend who isn’t dead.
