It was summer and night-time and all the right ingredients were at our fingertips. I brought whiskey and an inner tube. You brought your guitar and an old transistor radio with your favorite mixed tapes. The air was humid and the sky was bright and we were the only people on that darkened hillside. You made me sit down and hefted your guitar like a battle ax, striking a jam pose for the ages before sitting down in front of me. Your fingers fumbled for chords in the dark and you flashed a nervous smile in my direction. Your palms were so sweaty, you said, and you weren’t too sure about the words, and I said the bottle of whiskey cared more than I did, so just sing.
So you did, and I cried a little because no one had ever sung just for me before, not without me asking anyways. I didn’t even know you then, not really, but that was when I really fell in love with you. That one song, fingering mistakes and wrong lyrics most of all made me feel like the least lonely person in the world.
Then you kissed me and it wasn’t the first time, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. We spent a few minutes being teenagers again before looking around guiltily for a cop or our long lost parents. You hoisted the bottle of whiskey and I hoisted the inner tube and we went summer-time sledding on the dew-laden hillside.
Created: Jan 13, 2010Document Media