Why I Kissed Him

I kissed him because he paid for my gin and tonic.

I kissed him because he held my hand.

I kissed him because he said I looked like Tina Fey.

I kissed him because he asked politely.

I kissed him because he said he read The New Yorker.

I kissed him because I had gone too long without kisses.

I kissed him because he was a little bit arrogant, and I’m a little bit into that.

I kissed him because he said he liked mid-century furniture.

I kissed him because alcohol loosened my mind’s control of my lips.

I kissed him because he did and said everything right.

I kissed him because my brain said, “Well okay, sure, whatever.”

I kissed him and panicked at my lips’ obvious apathy for the lips on the other end.

I kissed him and imagined I was kissing someone else.

I kissed him and imagined I was kissing someone else because the wiring connecting my brain to my heart is faulty and frayed and twisted and prone to imprudent sparking.

I kissed him and asked, “Can you recommend a good electrician in the area?” 

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