By Charles M. Sumid Copyright 2025 Written 1965 Revised 1967
Behind the bleachers.
Autumn dance letting out.
She counts heartbeats.
His hand finds her waist.
Too light. Then too heavy. Then just right.
The approach—slow as continents meeting.
She reads his breathing, knows he’s counting too.
Three inches.
Two.
The pause where everything could still go wrong.
Where teeth might click.
Where noses might bump.
Where someone might laugh.
One inch.
Time stops. The way everyone said it would.
Not movie magic. Just this—
real and terrifying and exactly like the songs promised.
Contact.
Soft. Surprised by softness.
The world narrows—
mint gum, his shaking hand, the smell of borrowed cologne.
The harder question arrives.
How long?
Too quick means nothing.
Too long means too much.
She feels him wondering too, their uncertainty a shared frequency.
Three seconds.
Four.
The magic number arrives like instinct.
Now.
They pull back simultaneously.
Perfect timing. Both knowing without knowing how they knew.
His smile.
Her laugh. Not at each other.
At the impossible thing they just navigated together.
Later—other kisses.
The ones who grip.
The ones already gone before contact.
She keeps this one separate.
When timing was everything
and both knew exactly when to let go.
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