This short story, by Alyssa Evans, was the winner of the short story category in our Love Stinks writing contest.
Oh no. Here it comes. He’s leaning in for the kill. You open your mouth to say something in effort to escape the attack. Too late. His tongue is in your opened mouth. It has violated your virgin lips. You’re lucky he only ate vanilla ice cream at that little diner. It could have been worse. But now you’ll never be able to eat ice cream again. Not without being haunted by his slimy tongue invading your mouth. And the worst part? He’s the perfect guy.
He looks like Taylor Lautner. But you never tell him that. He hates it. Like hates it, hates it. (The Twilight Saga is the bane of his existence.) His big brown eyes melt your heart. And his crooked smile unhinges your joints. At the sight of his dimples, you fall apart. But his tongue makes you want to run for cover. What’s even worse? He liked the kiss. No, loved it.
Now he’s telling you he wants to kiss (or kill) you again. (You aren’t really listening. He could be saying either one for all you know.) Instead you’re starting to feign some symptoms of a serious plague. You start wiping nonexistent snot from your nose. Now you summon the moistest cough of your life. The really raspy kind that would impress smokers. You would pretend to sneeze if you were a good actress. But you aren’t. You shiver at the thought of another kiss. He puts his arm around you. Thinking you’re cold. Or maybe he knows you were about to escape. No, stop. He’s being nice. But the feeling of his arms around your body start to remind you of a cage. He offers to walk you inside. Thank God.
Running to the bathroom, you start shaving away your teeth with a toothbrush. Taste buds start getting torn off on the bristles in the process. But the vanilla ice cream is still lingering. Haunting you. You’ve always hated vanilla. It’s so sickly sweet. And painfully plain. It’s basically eating air that has calories. It’s dull, unimaginative, and boring. After downing shots of mouth wash, it’s gone.
And so is your first kiss. It’s finally over. Along with your first relationship. How could you recover from that? You can’t. So you prolong the inevitable break up. As lonnnnnnnnnng as you can. You don’t want to hurt him. You can’t be the reason his dimples disappear.
He tells you good morning and asks about your day. But each morning is not as good as the last. And every day has less and less to talk about. It wasn’t the kiss that ruined it for you. You’re not that shallow. It was more like the shattering of the fairytale you made up in your head. His jokes aren’t that funny. His teeth aren’t that straight. He plays video games all day. He doesn’t have a job. Or even a license. He wears that same blue sweatshirt every day. You don’t have much in common. And he texts you way too much.
You put down your phone ignoring his latest message. In the fridge, your vanilla coke from the other day is still hiding. Right behind the cottage cheese. You strategically put it there. So your brothers wouldn’t steal it. It was so sweet and crisp last time. The fizz made your stomach flutter. It flooded through your veins faster than your blood. It almost made your heart skip a beat. The bottle is so cold in your hands. You twist the cap off. And take a sip…it’s flat. (All you taste is sweet, sticky, plain vanilla. It almost tastes like ice cream and smells like a certain blue sweatshirt.) So you pour it down the drain. And pick up your phone. Dialing his number for the last time.