Our breakfast was at a little cafe on Blues Point Road where we devoured our cooked meal like starving children. We smiled in secret at our recent memories, wondering again if all love stories felt as exquisitely magical as ours.
I write my own story. I am not a supporting character in some else’s drama. I am the author and the protagonist, interpreting the actions of others into my own narrative.
Barely able to breathe, they cannot keep their hands from each other. In defiance of the stares from the lesser mortals in the room, they press against each other and search for warm, liquid lips.
What is the nature of that kiss that goes beyond more than acquaintances but has not yet evolved into the passionate kiss of lovers?
It is the first kiss — the one that takes place in silence.