By Alexandra Hodge
Late August is hotter than ever despite summer coming to a close.
Sticky.
We’re both sticky from sweat, sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park as the heat surrounds us.
I turn to see a crease form in the middle of his forehead as his eyebrows stick together, irritated by the stickiness.
Darkness sticks to the sky as the sun sets, mosquitos stick to my ankles, and sweat sticks to our skin, but neither of us wants to leave.
Two sticky beings who, at this moment, want nothing more than to stick closer together.
My thighs stick to the bench beneath us.
His hands stick to my neck.
When our lips stick together I feel the hairs of his beard stick to my cheeks.
We meld against each other as much as we can with his glasses in the way, becoming one sticky mass.
When I pull back to see him, I notice the crease has disappeared, a smile sticking to his face instead. I feel myself smile, overwhelmed by how much I feel for the sticky boy in front of me.
He is syrupy sweet.
He sticks his lips on mine again.
And again.
