I couldn’t stop thinking about the little moment when I’d tensed up as he touched me. The gentle familiarity felt wrong, somehow.
I thought maybe it was how orchestrated the whole thing had been: Augustus was amazing, but he’d overdone everything at the picnic,
right down to the sandwiches that were metaphorically resonant but tasted terrible and the memorized soliloquy that prevented conversation.
It all felt Romantic, but not romantic. But the truth is that I had never wanted him to kiss me, not in the way you are supposed to want these things.
I mean, he was gorgeous. I was attracted to him. I thought about him in that way, to borrow a phrase from the middle school vernacular.
But the actual touch, the realized touch... it was all wrong.
Then I found myself worrying I would have to make out with him to get to Amsterdam, which is not the kind of thing you want to be thinking,
because (a) It shouldn’t’ve even been a question whether I wanted to kiss him, and (b) Kissing someone so that you can get a free trip
is perilously close to full-on hooking, and I have to confess that while I did not fancy myself a particularly good person,
I never thought my first real sexual action would be prostitutional.
But then again, he hadn’t tried to kiss me; he’d only touched my face, which is not even sexual.
It was not a move designed to elicit arousal, but it was certainly a designed move, because Augustus Waters was no improviser.
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