Sarah DeNicolo

Kiddy Cocktails, Carmex and Trembling Hands

I remember when you slowly leaned in. We were sitting on a park bench, my feet dangling. The little kids stopped screaming. The dog owners stopped walking their dogs, and the bicyclists stopped riding their bikes. The world stopped spinning for a couple seconds, but I swear I still felt my hands trembling.


I remember what your lips tasted like. They were sweet. Like the first sip of a Kiddy Cocktail on Christmas Eve, thinking to yourself, ‘this will be my first, but it will not be my last.’


I remember how soft your lips were. Like you used and abused your Carmex. Like my bed sheets after they’ve just come out of the wash.


I remember when you pulled away. I was sad - I never wanted our lips to separate. But I forced the corners of my mouth to curve upwards, almost making a smile.


I remember when the leaning in stopped being slowly. We were laying on your bed; our clothes were laying on your carpet. The little kids in your neighborhood were still screaming, along with their parents who were screaming at them to stop screaming. The dog owners continued to walk their dogs, letting them shit on your lawn and the bicyclists continued to ride their bikes, running over your freshly planted flowers, leaving them shriveled up and dead. The world kept spinning, and my hands were sidewalks cracking during an earthquake.


I remember when your lips no longer had a taste, mostly because they were pressed against every other part of my body except my lips.


I remember when your lips were rigged and rough. You lost your chapstick. My mom switched softeners. The new one never worked as well as the old one.


I remember when you walked away. I was sad - I never wanted you to leave. But I forced the corners of my mouth to curve upwards, almost making a smile.