I had an image in my head. A conversation and a picture and it was clear. I had no words, though. I had a pen and a notebook, but no words. Until I thought of a kiss I shared with a girl once. No, more than once.
And then I had words.
I told the paper about the time when we kissed. Not the first time, though. Not the second or third either. My pen wrote about the time when that girl and I kissed in complete disregard for everyone but ourselves.
Suddenly I could write again. I had a story to tell. There was fear and romance. There was laughter and jealousy. There were secrets.
I told my paper about the time when I kissed a girl and it was exhilarating. The writing, that is. The kiss, too.
It was like a fire. The kiss, that is. The writing, too.
The first challenge since the last time it happened. Not the writing, just the kiss.
Before I jinx it, though, I have a story to tell you.
Just not here yet. Soon, though.