Everyone remembers their first kiss. It is portrayed in our American culture as so monumental that it is impossible to train our minds to void it out, no matter how dreadful it may have been.

Sure, I remember my first kiss. However, it was so un-monumental and unmoving, it is almost like a misplaced piece of paper lost under a bed or at the bottom of a desk drawer, only remembered when some serious decluttering is taking place. He had braces and a pimple on the tip of his nose, and I was covered from head to toe in gold glitter from homecoming festivities. And all I could think about was why he didn’t pop that pimple before hanging out with me that night. I don’t even remember the kiss. Or how I felt. Or what I said afterwards, or literally any other detail.

Who cares, anyway?

Not me.

Because, what I really remember is my second kiss.

I remember the first time I saw you. We were both juniors. It was the first day back to the "old grind" after Christmas break. You were new to the school. I called dibs on you. I thought you were mine before you ever were. Maybe you never actually were mine.

I remember the night of the kiss was the night of our annual activities banquet. You boycotted the night and refused to attend because you hated dressing up. I loved dressing up, so I attended.

I remember telling my friends that I was meeting up with you later that evening and that I was skipping out on the after-banquet dance. They told me I was a nutcase and glutton for punishment.

You know he is.

I remember I didn’t care.

I remember walking out to the parking lot, barefoot. The air was still a little crisp. It was springtime, but winter hadn’t quite released its grasp. There you were, in all your “bad boy” glory. And there I was in all my aura of naive innocence.

I remember you standing there against your piece of crap, forest green jeep. Arms crossed, legs crossed, smug expression of a kid who just got away with stealing a chocolate cookie from the jar. Baseball cap cocked ever-so-slightly to the side. Brown curls barely escaping. Roughed-up blue jeans, scuffed-up cowboy boots, black football hoodie.

I remember feeling so aware of myself, making my way across the white rock covered distance to you. Red high heeled wedges in hand, long blonde hair, curled and tied to the side. Accented with a red flower. Red and black floral dress, that wasn’t even mine, flouncing with every step as I skillfully avoided the sharp stones. Arms also crossed, pulling my hand-me-down jean jacket around me. Goosebumps all over my body, despite the jacket.

I remember you said, “Get in, girl.” (But not rudely.) And opened the passenger side door just so, because it was a little tricky. Not because you were being chivalrous.

I remember I got in and buckled my seatbelt, even though the passenger seat, of your piece of crap, forest green jeep, wasn’t even attached to the floor.

I remember how fast we zoomed out of that parking lot. Forty-seven miles per hour.

I remember you rolling down the dusty windows, and blasting your latest favorite country song; Boys ‘Round Here by Blake Shelton.

I remember you singing at the top of your lungs, every word. I laughed.

I remember speeding through stop signs and drifting around corners. In your piece of crap, forest green jeep.

I remember you, at some point, grabbing my naive innocent hand, in your rough “bad boy” hand. My heart fluttered and jumped a little, I remember.

I remember you stopped on a dusty, minimum maintenance road. It was Road M. Then you looked over at me (I had pulled my hair up into a ponytail at the top of my head and put my flower in your dash) in the passenger unattached seat of your piece of crap, forest green Jeep, and you smiled. And then I melted into a puddle of microwaved butter.

I remember you opened your door, so did I. We walked out in front of the Jeep. One step closer, and then another. Then the world started spinning.

I remember you pulled me close to you, and finally kissed me. In the headlight glow of your piece of crap, forest green jeep, on dusty minimum maintenance Road M, wearing a black and red floral dress, and barefeet. Surrounded by cornfields and everything “Nebraska.” And it was monumental, riveting, breathtaking.

I remember you smelled like sweat and leather and lemon scented something. And your lips tasted like fear and regret and a little dust.

I remember your hands. One on my waist and one on the back of my neck, pulling me closer.

I remember thinking, “I wish this was my first kiss.”

I remember wrapping my arms around you and laying my cheek on your chest. And then you kissed me again.

I remember saying, “Thank you.”

I remember you saying, nothing.

I remember us driving back to the school parking lot, your hand in mine.

I remember you saying, “I’ll call you,” as I stepped out of the Jeep.

I remember looking back at you over my shoulder as I made my way back to my car in my black and red floral dress, and barefeet.

I remember you not looking back at me.

I remember realizing in that moment that you weren’t mine, even after the kiss.

I remember I left my red flower in the dash in of your piece of crap, forest green Jeep.