I was fourteen years old when I got my first kiss. His name was Mark. He had blond hair, blue eyes, a minor pot habit, and was in my fifth period science class. He had just gotten out of play rehearsal. I decided that I wanted to be an actress. For our first date we sneaked into an R-rated movie, Grosse Pointe Blank with John Cusack. I still love John Cusack. I haven't heard from Mark since we graduated.
I don't remember what date the kiss took place on, but I remember that his birthday was March 26- the same day as F. Scott Fitzgerald. Every year when the day passes I take mild notice of it and trace my romantic roots the way I'd trace my ethnic ones. There was Jake, who made me read The Dream of the Earth. Will taught me that you cannot say you like a band if the only one of their albums you have is a greatest-hits collection. It only took seven more years of dating boys with four-letter first names, but I finally made the first move on a boy in a hostel in Barcelona. There is a French proverb that translates to there is always one who kisses and one who offers the cheek. Something about Europe and getting older and that beachfront sangria came together, and I finally got tired of offering my cheek.