After the Kiss by Terra Elan McVoy

looking for it—your place, your hangout, your relaxing room, your coffee haven, your kingdom of confection . . . and today you find it. today, after school, tagging along into decatur behind ellen-jessica-flip-simon-willow, you catch a glimpse and take note of the friendly outdoor patio and the beckoning chalkboard with the dancing monkey and the grinning goat. the aroma wafting out the opened front door makes your toes curl with anticipation, but you make yourself wait until later. later, when you’re alone, you’ll slip into it like a much-needed bath.
    by the bonfire
    since it isn’t raining this saturday there’s a bonfire at the lake house, and of course that means there’s some asshole who steps in it and melts half his shoe. there are girls with beers in red cups standing stupidly close to the flames, coughing and shifting away from the smoke, too dumb to step back, or maybe afraid they’ll squash the couples sitting cross-legged together in the dark hem just outside the firelight’s circle—sounds of their make-outs audible even over everyone else talking and the sharp crackle of spark. there’s the helpful guy in the life is good t-shirt who knows just when to put the next log on—always ready with a big stick to poke things in place when they collapse. you are enjoying the orange on your face, the warm laughing banter around you, and tomorrow you will bury your nose in your sweater, relish the way everything still smells like camping.
    more than meets the eye
    and then suddenly you’ve got company. you knew when you saw him last time—everyone in the whole pot-fogged, beer-goggled
house
knew—that he was pretty much the hottest boy there—and now here he is, hesitating a little, his shoulders unsure, but very clearly standing next to you, watching the fire too. you remind yourself girls will be like baseballs to him: catch, caress, throw back out to the field. but when his eyes catch yours—catch your eyes sneaking over to him—somehow the scales tip and the fire brightens. or perhaps it dims. something in those eyes surprises you for a second time, gives you a little pause. the most popular boy by the lake and he looks genuinely lonely. you are blushing—or too warm—and give him a small smile, but start to step away (you have to keep moving). when he speaks at first you don’t quite understand. you think he is kidding. you think he is making fun of you. you think you had him right in the first place, but when you challenge his eyes with yours there’s no smirk, no asshole a-ha, and he says it again:
you seem you could use / a little kind of surprise / maybe some haiku?
then just stands there, open and waiting, while you count imperceptibly on your fingers. he waits for you to do the math, for your eyes to widen, for you to say,
in fact i do.

Becca
    Some Advice
    When you are
    wrung out like the dish towel
    you had stuck in your shorts all day
    instead of an apron,
    and your hair is still wet
    from the shower you needed
    in order to rinse off all that coffeegrime and sweat
    â€”when you still have to read
    three chapters for English
    one chapter for history
    and have not studied for that chemistry test—
    do not be surprised if,
    when you go to the party (late) anyway
    to try to lean on your boyfriend
    and laugh at Paul’s jokes,
    you find yourself rolling your eyes at everyone and
    more than once squeezing your temples from noise.
    Try to feel no shock either when
    Alec scowls because you won’t
    do chickenfights by the bonfire,
    or when he says,
What’s the matter with you?
    in that cold way you hate
    and you find yourself leaving
    â€”too early—
    in tears.
    Showing, Not Telling: To Alec
    Your surprise
    is a surprise.
    How could you think
    â€”What are you thinking?—
    I could possibly act
    â€”I don’t understand
    why you’re acting this way—
    like a girl going through normal
    â€”I