We stand at the door of my apartment and I have the audacity to ask, "Are you going to kiss me?"  You reply with that leftover-awkward-adolescent attitude that makes you so charming, "is that OK?" To which I reply, "yes."

Then it becomes an issue, I have again taken a situation that should be easy and romantic, and turned it on its heel, making it my own. We spend about five minutes analyzing the pros and cons of the approach; your lack of a standard `move'; my willingness to make one if necessary. We decide on the hug-head-turn combination. The `tilt' I call it. We hug; I tilt my head to yours. The hug goes off marvelously.

Your thin, rail-y arms circle around to the small of my back.

I turn my head. "Now," you ask.
"Now," you ask again.

I press my lips to yours; I forgot how full they were. I forgot the conversation we had had. Your smoky breath fills my mouth. Your lips sealed with mine, tentative as a high school slow dance, then your tongue, then your tongue slips between my teeth and I feel sexy. I feel wanted. I reach

       up,
up,

over the collar of your leather jacket to the nape of your pale neck.

I hold your head in my hands. You grab my waist again. I sink into you, fall into you, slip into you - like water

sw

  irl

     ing

          down

a stainless steel kitchen sink. Powerless yet empowered. You stumble into me; I back you against the wall of the foyer closet.

You drink at my lips like my breath is a long tall glass of lemonade. You are over and around me at the same time. I slip my hands under your jacket, to your waist.

Your hips jut out, cocky. I rub them, counter-
                 O

Your baggy pants slide, the brown belt that holds them useless. We are turned my back against the wall. I kiss like a baby bird, head tilted, lips open for more. You bury your head in my neck. I smell my own scent with you - cheap lotion, skin, my warmth. You are kissing my shoulders; kissing my neck. I am weak and you make me weaker.

This is

                  passion,

I am thinking,

this is           passionate.

I press against you and our jeans chafe; the fabrics niche and un-niche as we turn around and around circles
tighterandtighter into each other, against each other, translating from your chest to mine and back again like the current from a nine-volt battery.

"You need to go home," a whisper came up from somewhere that I am not aware of, somewhere deep in the recesses of my good-girl brain.

"OK," you pant in reply. We pull back and all I can see are your lips so full and red from kissing me, breathing me, being me;

your eyes, brown and deep and

I can't think

                  to think.