I would wonder if my hair was long enough

I kissed you by your eye and you pulled away, puffed air from your mouth like you do when my hair brushes below your nose. You say it felt weird and laugh in a quick way that lets me know this isn't funny, but rather it should not happen again. I settle back against the hard fibers of your grandmother's couch and will not touch you for a while. I become insecure at the slightest hint that my affection is not conjuring the emotions that match the moment. You lean over, kiss me and ask if you are a good kisser. I say you are but will not ask the same question because I am still nervous about your laugh. I am sure that this is a test, an attempt at an opening, a way for you to tell me that my lips against that spot below and behind your ear feel rough and sticky, that I always smell of coffee and occasionally of menthol cigarettes. I would take the hints without telling you about your after-work hugs, the sharpness of the forming perspiration stains; the taste of kissing you after you floss, when I can still feel what the ribbon did between teeth and across tongue. I would let you pull me into bed and tell me not to worry, that you loved me and we were learning how to be good kissers together. I would let you pull my hair and hold my head fast against the pillow, though this means I cannot breath with your shoulder against my face and covering my mouth. I would wonder if my hair was long enough for you to hold onto.