Comic Books and Kisses

That summer that I fell metaphorically and physically into your arms was one I could never forget. We were both fourteen, but were totally different in good ways and bad. You loved comic books, I loved that you love comic books, and I loved drawing. You loved that I love drawing. Our hobbies fell hand and hand, seeing as though we could come up with our own ideas and turn them into ten paged comics. I read the ones you loved, and I remember when you gave me that Batman issue. Lets rewind, though.

That summer that I bumped into you at the used bookstore was one I could never, ever let go of. You had your glasses on, causing a small shine off the rims, and your brown-red hair fell in front of your face as soon as you dropped down onto your knees to pick up the fallen comic books you held before our bodies collided. I felt bad, sorry, but also annoyed. I remember thinking: wow, this asshole needs to watch where he's going. Then, getting a view of your face, I felt bad for calling you an asshole. You were far from it, you were handsome and your features were flawless.

“Sorry,” I had said, getting down on my own knees to pick up the books. When I realized what they were, I smirked. I loved comics, secretly. “These are nice, why are you giving them to here?” I asked you. You just shrugged, filing them all back in order. You had quirks and habits like that. It was always ‘everything has to be in alphabetical order,’ or ‘everything has to be tidy,’ with you. It made my day when you said:

“I’m not giving them to here, I’m buying them from here.” And gave me a small smile as we rose to our feet. We just stood there, our hands on the white box filled with comic books and our eyes staring into one another’s. I have to admit, I had butterflies when you grinned a crooked grin at me.

The hour passed, and we had eventually got to talking about our love of comic books, our hatred of fake people, and our admiration in daily heroes. We also talked about our plans for the future, and we learned each other's quirks and bad habits. Your name, I had learned, was Phillip, but people called you Phil for short. You had told me that I was the only one who could call you Philly, which brought great joy and amusement to me. I told you my name was Nicole, and no one could refer to me as Nikki, besides you. That seemed to have brought joy and amusement to you, also.

"You want to go get something to drink, Nikki?" You had asked me. I didn't protest, but I felt nervous. I had never really had any guy buy anything for me. I was always busy with homework and friends to ever pay them any attention, rather. But you, Philly, something about you was different. Something I was so incredibly drawn to, something that felt safe. I had told you my favorite thing to drink, and you brought me straight to Juice Heaven, my favorite drink shop.

"Order the Mango Split," I had told you. When you asked 'why?' I told you it was my second favorite, and I could sip off of your drink and you off of mine. You didn't doubt me, so you ordered a medium sized Strawberry Twist and a medium sized Mango Split. I had thanked you and tried throwing some of my spare change in. Only to your disagreement, you insisted 'I've got this, no lady should ever have to pay for anything, ever.' And I was happy to oblige, you were too good to be true.
“So, Philly, where do you live?” I had asked you, watching you sip your drink. You shrugged, and I laughed a small laugh. You told me my laugh was cute and you’ve ‘never heard anything like it.’ I could feel my cheeks flush, and you reached over to kiss one. That had caught me off guard, but in a good way.

“I live in the La Grand area, not far from here.” You had told me after my cheeks had faded the bright pink. I was surprised, I lived in the La Grand area. I finished sipping on my Strawberry Twist, then had reached over to grab your Mango Split. I took a sip of it, then smiled my brightest smile.

“Don’t tell me, you’re going to La Grand Union High school next year, right?” I had asked you, and you nodded. This thrilled me, gave me more butterflies than I had ever experienced in my life. I had told you I was going, and that I would probably see you around, a lot. That seemed to have made you excited as well, and that pleased me.

“Are you going to the orientation?” You asked me, and I nodded. “We should go together,” you suggested. I nodded again, smiling at the thought of hanging out with you, seeing as though I probably didn’t have any friends going to the orientation. In fact, I didn’t have hardly any friends to start out with. I told you my favorite thing about eighth grade and you told me your’s.

“So, Philly. Do you want to walk me home?” I had asked you around six o’clock, realizing I had spent nearly three hours with you, just sharing our drinks and our life. I remember telling you about my grandma giving me the ring I was wearing. You told me your grandpa had given you the necklace you were wearing, and I was enthralled. You were already my best friend.

“Where do you live?” You asked me, and I had told you. You said you lived at least five streets down from me, which caused me to be even more attracted to you. When we got up from the table, threw away our drinks, you grabbed your box of comic books and I grabbed the Batman issue you gave me. Thanking you for the drink, and the comic, I grabbed my coat and you opened the door for me, a gentleman in the making.

“We better start walking if we want to make it before sundown.” I suggested to you, and you agreed. Slowly but surely, we walked through the small town of Harton and into the bigger town of La Grand. I smiled at the familiar scent, and linked my arm with your own. I didn’t care if people I knew or you knew had saw us, I only cared that I was with you. You didn’t protest, and we continued walking. That smile on your face will always be burned into my memory, so distant but always there.

When we had got to my house, I smiled at you and said, “This is my house, obviously.” And kissed you on your cheek. You pulled on my arm before I had the chance to scurry away and brought me to your chest, giving me the securest hug I had ever felt. You had told me I wasn’t getting away that fast, and kissed my forehead. And that’s when I very nonchalantly and almost immediately pressed my red lips onto your own. You were at most a foot taller than me, I remember. You kissed me back, and I didn’t want to pull away. That had been my first kiss, and the first time I actually felt like I was important.

“Nikki, you’re an amazing person.” You had said to me, kissing my forehead one last time. I blushed then, and kissed your cheek one last time as well. Speechlessly, I enveloped you into a tight hug around your waist, holding on to my insanity and onto you, almost begging you to stay. But you and I both knew that you had to go walk home with your box of comic books.

“Philly, I love that you love comic books.” I had told you as I pulled away, looking up into your green and blue eyes. You just simply smiled down at me, kissing me on my lips softly and reassuringly. I laughed a small laugh, grabbed my batman comic book, and almost forgot one important thing, my phone number. Giving you those seven digits was the make it or break it point, and I chose to make it. You shoved my number into your jacket pocket, gripped onto the comic book box, and turned around, headed straight for the sidewalk.

“You be careful, Nikki. I’ll call you when I can.” You told me, walking off into the fading light of the sunset. That moment in time was one I would never forget, the main thing that was stuck in my blue eyes. Freshman Orientation would be held in the latter week, which would mean I could see you again. Little did I know that would never, ever happen.

The day that I had heard you got hit by that truck was when I officially lost all hope in the world. Your mother had called me, finding my number scattered underneath of all the comic books in the road, and asked me who I was. I told her I was Nicole Simons, and that I was a good, good friend of your’s. No questions were asked other than that, then she told me what had happened. I acted as though I wasn’t fazed, but you’d know me better and would’ve known I was. That dreadful, horrible day that I hung up the phone, I broke down and cried. Waiting and waiting until I got the phone call about your funeral, I couldn’t stop crying. That was three days, and my parents left me alone.

Your funeral was held at La Grand’s small Christian church, and I counted exactly one-hundred heads connected to one-hundred bodies. Only seventy-five of those heads were crying, mine being one of them. I couldn’t bare to look at your open casket, so I waited until everyone but the priest was gone to walk up to it. Wiping away my tears, I pulled out the Batman comic book and laid it on top of your folded hands, almost leaning down to kiss your icy and lifeless face. The priest closed the lid of your black box, and told the strong men standing there to bring you to the car to take you to the cemetery.

Only seventy-six of those heads showed up to the burial, me standing next to your weeping mother and father. They were laying your casket into the ground, burying you next to your grandpa. Thinking about your grandpa almost made me sick, my hand twirling the ring my grandma had given me. I watched as they lowered your black box into the ground, standing there silent as everyone started to file away. Even your parents had left as soon as the rain drops started falling from the sky.

I can never forget that rainy, summer evening when I said my last goodbye to you, taking off my sacred band and burying it into the mud, trying to hold back the fit of coughs I was accumulating. I can never forget the evening when I fell down onto the mud, soiling my black attire just for the illusion of me falling into your arms. Whispering that line over and over again was what I remember most about that day, though. “I love that you love comic books.”