The Striped Blue Afghan
by Erica Lorraine
The striped blue afghan is already on his lap and I pull it on mine. It’s late and my sister is out with his sister and we’re watching Twilight Zone, the movie, in his parents’ den and his hand reaches out and holds my hand under the afghan. I can’t speak. My face is hot and I feel the whole hot world in the flesh of his hand, I’m already telling myself the story of how my sister was out with his sister and how we watched Twilight Zone, the movie, and he held my hand. And that tight ache in my stomach and sting on my lips that I keep licking means that we’re going to kiss. We are going to kiss. I clutch at his hand. I slump down low even though it’s dark in the room with just the light of the television, he hunches down too and we’re under the afghan that smells like corn chips and yarn. We hold hands and hunch down so that our faces are under the afghan and moving, nuzzling toward each other, I know he must have kissed before. He’s older. And his lips are soft. And then I’m telling myself the story of how he kissed me. And kiss and kiss and kiss like babies, breathing into each other’s mouth. We kiss for minutes and hours and after Twilight Zone, the movie. And through the news. And the story about the missing hiker. And the weather. Still with one sweaty hand clutching another.