Firsts

By Ana B. Freeman

First pet
(A fish named Cat. Died after two days.)

First kiss
(Dave from my Jewish youth group. Slobbery.)

First love
(Drunken doe eyes behind Rachel Maddow glasses. Hand sanitizer, wild laughter.)

First job
(Rigging curtains like sailors. Backs aching from hammering. Darkness. Backdrops.)

First drink
(Vodka out of a plastic water bottle at the park. Swinging.)

First love
(Introduced me to her father as her “friend.” Flower decals on the wall above her bed.)

First all-nighter
(Sunrise dizziness. Got in the car, coughing triumphantly.)

First time doing what the kids from the city did
(It smelled sharp. It tingled going in.)

First love
(We wore matching dresses once. We held hands for the whole year that I was seventeen.)

First love
(The first time we kissed, I shook so hard, I fell. The first time we broke up, I ran out the back door and into the graveyard, tripping over tombstones in the black. I slept in the cellar under blankets that stunk of other people’s sex fluids. I wanted her to worry.)

First love
(She smelled soft.)

First love
(She smiled as she showed me her condom collection. Hundreds.)

First love
(She was an expert in Civil War history. Her knees chattered in her sleep. She introduced me to cigarettes. For my birthday, she gave me a hug. We compared grades. She could go for days without eating. She always had cowlicks. She hated the way I always told her, “Come here now.” She said it was needy. It was needy. We made fun of everyone; we were having more fun than anyone who wasn’t us. When she decided she was straight, she gave me all her plaid shirts. We were the same size.)

First love
(Lacy skirts on second-chance first dates.)

First love
(Kissed me on the lips when her best friend killed himself. Her boyfriend was at a body painting party.)

First love
(The sixth time we broke up, I returned her pink sneakers.)

First love
(The last time I saw her was when she stumbled up to me at a party and slurred, “I’m soooo sorry for everything I’ve put you through.” Or, the last time I saw her was when I was returning her roommate’s headphones and she was home unexpectedly. She nearly shut my fingers in that thin dorm door. Or, the last time I saw her, she was in the passenger’s seat of her father’s car. He was driving straight towards me. She was looking right at me.)

First love
(It wasn’t until weeks later that I heard.)

First love
(Hand sanitizer, wild laughter.)

First love
(Left school on a stretcher.)

Ana B. Freeman is a queer writer and educator. Her work has appeared on The Spun Yarn, Theatre is Easy, and Odyssey Works.