I was still laughing to myself at the image I had of Cassie smoking up around fairy lights when I noticed that she was rising up to meet me like one of those waves that hits you in the face when you stand on some rocks a bit too close to the ocean. She wrapped her arm around my neck and in her other hand she continued to hold mine, gifting me some semblance of stability.
You know how some people can be good at football or swimming or something. You know how they just look so natural as if they have been doing it all their lives. Even fat people can fool you. Some fat guys, as soon as they get a football at their feet, they gain a balance that is completley unexpected in their civilian life.
Cassie was just simply, very good at kissing. I mean I probably would be pretty good at it too if I was given the chance to practice, but I mean she was something else.
Drawing me close, she kissed me again and again like a prince banging on the door of a castle, willing me to come out. The touch of her lips was at once so delicate but whose lightness was betrayed by its sincerity asking, begging: speak to me, speak to me.
And duly I came crwaling out again. I leaned into her and held her close. My right hand resting on the small of her back and my left holding me steady in the waves. And she was there, always meeting me, teasing me higher like two kids climbing a tree. She was the better one, of course, always just a branch out of reach.