Once Upon a Mexican Pizza
Lying on the hood of my 1974 Dart Swinger, the night sky lit up with a sea of stars. Leo, the excruciatingly perfect skater guy from my homeroom class, tossed back the last bite of his burrito, his eyes never leaving the sparkling expanse above us. With his back flush with the windshield and an arm casually flung over his head onto the roof, it was almost like looking at one of the magazine cutouts of Christian Slater scotch taped to my wall. He was structurally perfect, his profile so stunning it reminded me of the shadow portraits we attempted to clip with black construction paper in first grade.
I stared at his Adam’s apple as he swallowed the giant bite of soft tortilla and licked the hot sauce from the corner of his mouth. The collar of his t-shirt was perfectly tattered, as if he had intentionally taken tiny scissors and curated each and every little rip. The material lazily draped over his collarbone, taunting me as I longed to place my face beneath his stubbly jawline.
After a moment of silence he turned to me, his eyebrow cocked as a smirk spread across his lips. His body rolled toward mine, our faces inches away from one another. I shivered as a chilly breeze grazed my arms, goosebumps forcing my arm hairs to stand at attention.
“Do you want a sip of my Dr. Pepper?” he asked, showing me his paper cup and taking a sip himself.
“I’m good,” I smiled back, suddenly wondering if I had Mexican pizza in my teeth.
Catching a glimpse of my chilly arms, he slid from the hood of the car and headed toward the passenger door.
A moment of panic gripped me, as he dipped out of sight and opened the passenger door. I prayed to the stars that he wasn’t ready to leave, not just yet.
“Here,” he said as he reappeared, handing me his giant 2XL Thrasher hoodie. I sat up and slid it over my head and was instantly immersed in his scent, a cocoon of joy I couldn’t have conceived of in my wildest dreams. I never wanted to take it off. I had enjoyed wafts of this scent as he passed me in class, but to be fully surrounded in it was pure heaven.
Standing at the side of the car he approached me, parting my knees and standing between them with his hands on my calves. I had no idea what to do with myself, so I just stared into his hazel eyes, frozen, like an armadillo on the highway.
“Thea,” he whispered, “I want you to kiss me.”
I had one chance to get this right, and there were a million ways to overthink this moment. It had taken months of hoping and one birthday wish to get him up on this ridge with me, and I was not about to let it slip away.
My hand brushed the chunk of wavy dark hair dangling over his eye away and traced the outline of his face. His eyes closed instinctively at the sensation of fingertips on his cheek, a subtle smile gracing his perfect lips.
With my fingers reaching for the nape of his hairline I tilted my head and entered his magical orbit for a kiss. After a moment of savoring the initial contact, our lips embraced one another as he leaned in for more.
Just as his hands reached my hips and we dove into each other, one thought broke through the moment and nearly made me smile.
Yep, there it was, the distinct flavor of late-night, post-tequila Taco Bell.
Years later a single bite of food from the drive-thru would instantly take me back to that night, to Leo, to the way he made me feel.
Nothing had ever quite touched it.