Lightning

I was thinking about the first time Mike kissed me, or rather I kissed him. I still remember that we sat in my little red Renault Alliance, a piece of shit car built of metric and standard bolts and spare screws. That's how Mike described it anyway. I thought of it as my zippy little car until it died and my vehicular alliance changed. I've been thinking about that night, sitting in my car in the parking lot where we worked. The security guard made several passes, at first checking our work badges, then just smiling and waving, and then, in the wee hours of the night, just walking quietly past us on his rounds. I imagine we made his night a little more interesting.

I've been thinking about energy. Lightning bolts strike the earth, or the nearest route to ground, because of static electricity that has built up and finally reaches a potential beyond which the very air cannot resist. It's like that with the first kiss.

You know what I mean. You're watching a really great romantic comedy and you remember that palpable swoon when the two finally kiss at the end of the movie. Why else watch some of the stupid antics that go on during some of those movies? It's all for that contact, the one that works.

Is that why I like lightning so much? Is it that same moment when the sky finally leans in for that sweet burning kiss, the one that spreads out in visible lines across the ground, the way all your hairs suddenly realign across the back of your arm and you feel as though your life is never going to be the same after that one moment?

Thank you for listening, jb