There is a gulf between unrequited first loves and requited ones. It’s the gulf between dreaming and experiencing. And it’s easier to wake up than forget.
It’s late, they stand on her back patio - the paving blocks their dance floor. She leans against the house, he paces a bit, they talk in hushed voices. (This isn’t the first time they’ve done this.) Intimate voices, voices of two people who know each other so well in so many ways, but don’t know each other in the one way they both want to.
Gene asks Emily a question - it’s not important, something random, like if she wants to hang out after school tomorrow, or what they’re doing on Friday (if they’re doing something on Friday). She smiles, coy, leans toward him with an answer to a question he didn’t ask - something mysterious, barely audible. They’re closer now: her face in front of his, her wide eyes close slowly, and her full lips close just as slowly. He never heard her, and it doesn’t matter, and they fall into it.
Gene smiles when they kiss. When, as in while, during. Emily doesn’t seem to mind.
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