| Strange, now, to think of how important he seemed, now that he no longer speaks to me
He was the first man I ever kissed. He was the first person I had sex with. He was the first person to ever see me naked outside of immediate family.
We weren't dating yet, but we were hanging out all the time. He'd just gotten out of a long relationship, one in which he was hurt pretty badly (she ended up with his childhood best friend a couple of months after they broke up for good). I was being his friend, really with no designs on him at all.
It was a summer night in early July. He called me up with the usual cryptic, short-lived phone conversation.
"You doing anything?"
"Nope."
"Want to hang out?"
"Sure."
"Pick me up in ten?"
That's all our phone conversations ever were. It was nice, for me - finally, someone who hated talking on the phone as much as I did.
I went over to his house to pick him up and we decided to go night swimming at one of the nearby lakes (there are many). After choosing the lake, we debated clothed/skinny dipping (some strange sexual tension was apparently present, even then, as we both uncharacteristically voted for clothed).
As we were just kind of floating around and talking, he swam over and kissed me on the cheek.
"Thanks."
"For what?"
"Just ... being cool. Thanks."
An hour later, I was sitting on the shore, trying to dry off in the warm breeze. He came up and put his head on my shoulder, more like a five-year-old needing a hug than a fliration. He looked up at the moon.
"Comforting, isn't it?" I asked, smiling at his little boy grin.
"Yeah," he nodded. "Thank god for the moon." | 
