Poetry By Erin Lorandos

John Buie CC



First Kiss


               This is not a love story.

The apartment was that kind of messy that looks clean. My mother and I were sitting in the two armchairs she had rescued from a dumpster, and covered with throw blankets that were covered in pictures of cats, or wolves, maybe - and definitely needed washing. They were faced towards the television, which was always on and muted.

He was sitting on the foot rest. 

They had been dating for a while at that point. He was married, but divorced in his mind. She was just lonely. 

He was her boss.

Later that year, or maybe it was the next summer, once I’d begun to push this day down into he folds of my brain and buffed out the wrinkles it created on my heart, when I had a boyfriend of my own, she would barter time. If you spend the afternoon with me and B, you can see T this evening. 

So of course, I did. 

On this day, he may have been there to watch a game, or share a meal, I couldn’t say now. Those details are no longer relevant.

But, I do remember sitting there, the smallest point of a triangle. 

How did the conversation start? There’s no logical way two people in their mid lives and me, a new teenager should have landed there. Maybe - something on tv? Or the news? - something sparked this interaction.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been kissed,” he said. “You’re so beautiful.”

I remember looking to her, my mother, to try to understand. I remember her raised eyebrows and the slight quirk to the corner of her mouth. Obviously, I was beautiful, it said - I was her daughter. 

“Nope,” I said. 

My mind understanding there was no expectation of it yet. I was starting high school in the fall. I still slept with my childhood blanket. It was there for decoration, by then, sure - not something I clung to. Well, not that I’d admit at least. In a few years, when I went to college, I would actually take it with me. It stayed folded up under my pillow until I moved in with the man I would marry… after all. 

“Can I be your first? It would be an honor.”

Time stood still
Childhood ended, then
and she just looked on

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Erin Lorandos is best defined by her Dewey Decimal call numbers: mom, librarian and female writer living in the United States. And, yes, she has the tattoo to match! She has worked in libraries and other informal education spaces for her entire career, and now works in the nonprofit space focused on digital equity. She has been a writer for as long as she can remember, and writes both poetry and fiction. Some of her recent publication credits can be found at erinlorandos.blogspot.com