The Moment Before

by Anna Moriarty Lev

1. Outside the art room. Eighth grade. The school hallway walls are yellow and the tile is speckled. You’re younger than me but also taller so you have to lean down a little. I’m not sure how to do this, if I am supposed to stand on my toes, or just wait for your face to get down near mine. I keep my eyes open even though I’m pretty sure the right thing here is closed.

2. Outside my house, side door, on the steps. Nighttime, summer after ninth grade. You’re taller (again), older this time. I’m pretty sure you’ve been waiting for me to signal that it’s okay for you to make a move, but I’m completely too nervous to do so. I’m quiet, just standing there hoping you’ll read my mind. You talk some nonsense. The light is on in the kitchen, so my parents must be up. As your head comes down I keep my eyes open until the last minute and I wonder what I’m supposed to do when your tongue pushes through my lips.

3. I don’t even want to be here. Tenth grade, your living room, on the couch. I’m just marking time. Your little brother is in the basement. I don’t remember how you start but as soon as you do I regret it.

4. You’re dropping me home after a date. Eleventh grade. You’re older and taller, just a little. It’s summer, that hazy warm purple summer evening light. You offer me a large mint from England and I know it’s going to take a while to finish. We walk around the neighborhood, stalling. I’m nervous and try to get my mint smaller as quickly as possible. Finally I swallow it. We’re on the side porch, finally. You lean in, finally. I don’t wonder at all about anything I’m supposed to do.

5. The summer after twelfth grade. You’re in college and very tall. Your parents’ house, on the couch, watching a movie. You seem unsure about what to do and I’m not sure I want to do it. From great heights you drift down, I try to seem sure. Eyes closed.

6. Outside somewhere, in a field. I’ve been driving and got a little lost. Summer after my freshman year of college. You’re about my height and the same age. You ask permission.

7. Sophomore year of college. You’re several years older, but a freshman. Your apartment, Brooklyn. I’m wearing black jeans, pink moccasins, and a turquoise beaded necklace from my sister. You look cuter with your glasses on. Closed eyes. I feel deliciously bad and do not hesitate.

8. Raining, night, Manhattan. Junior year. Eighth and Broadway. You touch my face, a little taller you lean down, I tip toe up.

9. Outside my apartment in Brooklyn, late at night. Senior year. I’m wearing my glasses because earlier you said I should wear them all the time. You’re shorter. I don’t feel anything. I turn to say goodnight and thanks for dropping me home and surprise! There’s your mouth.

10. A month later, sweet spring night. I invite you back to my place to watch Gilmore Girls. You start talking about doing your taxes and at this point we’re turned toward each other (you’re taller, but it doesn’t matter from here) and I’m so far from thinking about supposed to’s or my roommate sleeping down the hall or anything but how to close the inches of distance on the futon. I remember which underwear I’ve got on (not the nice ones) and in the middle of tax talk you’ve suddenly made your move.

11. San Francisco. A hostel. Watching The Sound of Music on my laptop. I wonder if they kiss differently where you’re from. You call me Leisel. I guess they do.

12. Eight hours of Gilmore Girls later and here we are. In Chinatown. We’re both 22, almost 23. You’re a couple inches shorter, but I think it’s cute. Arms touching, knees touching, sweating and nervous, wondering if it will happen. I’ve never waited this long and been so uncertain of someone’s feelings. Last night I thought it would happen but you just left. I think about your hair and how that shirt fits you and remember looking you up on the internet earlier and listening to your MySpace music page. We’re sitting so close it must be about to happen. During the credits we turn to each other.

13. Night, dark, Manhattan again, only now it’s by the river. I’m only here for escape. Twenty-five years old and no idea how old you are (younger, I think?), but you’re tall and interested and so here we are. You sort of grab me, I know it’s coming, and pretend to be happy about it even though you make these funny sounds and I want to laugh.

14. Still 25 and I’ve been waiting for this. Winter. A diner. You’re late and they don’t want to let me keep the breakfast menu but I get them to anyway (don’t all diners have breakfast all day? I guess not). Finally you arrive and your smile sure is something. I should have waited outside because then you’d be kissing me by now (and the waiters wouldn’t be mad), but we’re in this diner and they want us to order. Later we’re walking in Central Park, still haven’t yet, don’t know how to broach the subject. I’m talking (about ducks?) and you stop me. I’m wearing a backpack and wondering where you’ll put your hands. You find a place. My fanny pack presses into your stomach. Your tall face and dark voice come down to me. The sounds of joggers going past and people talking fade away. One of your hands is in my hair.

15. In Massachusetts. You are much older, much taller, and seem uninterested in me. We watch one movie, sitting close together but it could just be this very small futon. You demonstrate pressure points on my neck. I begin to wonder. A second movie. You’re wearing that brown hat. You turn to me. Your face changes and there’s something in your eyes that’s about me but scared at the same time. For a second you remind me of a deer. We both lean in.

Anna Moriarty Lev is a writer, cartoonist, and film projectionist. She also blogs and tweets.