Where first kisses flourish

On soggy nights with humidity heavy in the air as a greenhouse, kissing-catcher-caught boys and girls make their way to the drive-in theatre. They come hair gelled, lips rouged, underarms sprayed, new shoes polished. They come pretty as lilies and plain as leaves. Young moustaches are combed and worn with pride. Like fine moths, freshly pupated from childhood this very summer, they flock and jostle to the light of the big screen. Dad-pleaded cars pull up smartly, the tops down and fire in their exhausts. Younger or poorer boys look on in misery at the drivers, banished to second pickings by vehicular default. They come there all except embarrassing little brothers and sisters, ignored and denied, who have better things to do anyway, playing stalk-the-lantern or telling ghost stories. Saturday evenings all dressed in finery after a full day planning outfits, poses and pick-up lines.
Oh, the first kisses! Oh, the nervous lips meeting unsteadily! Oh, the bodies acting under impulses driven by questing minds! Hands soft and fragile as silk scarves wrapped in calluses from cricket balls. Breath sweet as honey and warm as summer pavements mingling with that of lake water and spearmint. Tongue-moistened lips fit perfectly, bodies shaking with fear and excitement. And as the lucky ones pair off, others are left watching. They came this night, as on all the others, hoping against hope and logic, for a piece of that magic, to smell apple-scented hair as it falls about her face. The watchers, these people, desolation dressed behind pimples and buck-teeth, puppy fat and the kindly lying compliments of aunts. The watchers, affecting casual disinterest, but given away by eyes flicking to embracing couples and sighs felt more than heard. The watchers, standing in the snack shop grotto, alone or in a group, all different but the same, all wallflowers and dulled penknives. Their hearts are filled with lies, and how! Self-imposed lies told softly in their beds as they drift into that nebulous place between slumber and waking, that perfect place where they are muscled or slim, their faces those of demigods or mermaids, that place of wonder where hope is caught easily in butterfly nets and flutters with the faces of pans and nymphs. It’s the land that lasts forever and is snatched away in an instant by alarm clocks and the cries of parents to dress for school. These nocturnal lies love to mingle with the stories, the romances, the dashing heroes and maidens in despair, or the comely everyman who woos the beautiful girl with nothing more than a pure heart and a kind word. How these scenes play on the backs of eyelids in those moments when they are shut to avoid the truth of what their lips are missing. Despair for the brand new shirts designed and failing as a visual pheromone! Weep for the tissue-padded brassieres! Mourn for knock-knees and pigeon feet! The agony of the fat girl! The hopelessness of greasy hair! Pray that clumsy tongues find eloquence! Oh the drama of long evenings, of first kisses blooming as lonely lips tremble unfulfilled after nights of pillow-practicing. Oh how the same dappled light reveals pain and pleasure.
Oh sorrowful skulkers, your time will come! Watch not those boasting bodies pressed together in earnest! Theirs is not love, but fumbling senses prone to greed! What you crave is not what you need. Patience friends, give it time; you’ll ripen and bulge, colour will flush to your cheeks. Come, harvest time, come! Let not our friends know sadness! Come fruit picker, we beckon you on! Shine bright sun, shine on those hiding in the dark! Reveal their beauty; give us all kind eyes. Let dry lips meet and never part.