You are thirteen years old and walk the earth with an all-the-time ache throbbing in your precious nutters. The bikini brief phase. Why? The nocturnal emission. Very great. Your heart grinds away constantly, burns itself into ashes, always rematerializing. Choose your own adventure. It’s winter in your bedroom. Make a gun with your finger and thumb. You aim at the silence, the permafrost, the diamond glint of the future.
The movie is 18 Again, a switch comedy, the young and old switch bodies.
George Burns. Charlie Schlatter.
As before with Moore and Cameron. Reinhold and Savage. But this movie. Now. The East-Towne 5.
Nora Reperton sitting next to you wearing a pink sweater and spotless pink Converse All-Stars and her fingernails are painted light pink. Her cheeks and lips glitter and shine in the flashing light from the screen. The coming attractions. The following preview has been approved for all audiences.
Her perfume smells like the vast rolling fields of heaven itself. It’s Giorgio, she tells you. She and her mother both wear Giorgio. You want her to take you there. Her hand is warm in yours, ten fingers interlocked, sweat in the lifelines, thumbs moving slowly gently back and forth and oh the skin of her wrist.
Are we there yet? No.
Is it time yet? Yes.
Now. Do it now. Kiss her now. Take a breath. Bend and release.
The fires began with just a few tiny sparks way down deep in places in your heart you never knew existed and they’re raging away now all out of control. This day, this moment. What was that poem? So much depends upon the last wild seconds before the kiss, when your veins are a million speedways pumping rocket-fuel blood.
You are standing in a bright field. You are listening to the earth, drawn back like a bow, tasting the stars, the honey, your mouth, the light. To touch her glittery cheek, to step through the screen and scream, the sins, the sinner, the night, the kiss . . .
Now.
There is nothing else but this moment, this movie, your hand in hers, do it now, kiss her now. No longer afraid to feel to fight to kick out against life to kiss to dream to dance to love to leave home to die to learn to fuck up fall down and forgive . . .
You tremble as you move toward her.
Nora.
Her mouth is there, slightly open. Your lips touch hers for a second, no, half a second, before you pull back, startled, shocked by the wetness. It was there, it was real, her mouth, but no, breathe in, be cool, try and keep it together . . .
And you are. And you do. You are so supercool that what you do is act like you only pulled away so you could spit out your gum. You remove the wad, about ten little pieces of Trident spearmint. It takes the rest of the century to fall to the floor.
Behind you someone coughs.
Something happens on screen. Mild laughter in the crowd.
Desire.
Is it time yet? Yes.
Nora is waiting. She looks at you and smiles. You clear your throat and lean over and kiss her and your tongues touch softly, beautifully, your fingers still entwined.
Now no one dies and everyone’s happy. The world knows everlasting peace.
You have entered a state of permanent longing.