She’s the worst kisser I’ve ever experienced. Her tongue thrusts into my mouth and wags back and forth like a dog’s tail. Her lips draw away from mine repeatedly so that I never know quite when to end it, and each time she makes suction, creating an audible pop as if she were Bugs Bunny. I want to move on to parts of her face and neck as my hands explore her hair and body, but she has made things so wet that I feel like I’m just slobbering. So I stay put. But in the middle of it all I begin to look at her and things become enjoyable. The way her face smiles and her eyes rest peacefully in their little slits with her head tilted upward is my validation. A special light comes across her in this moment, reminding me that it doesn’t matter if she has poor grammar, listens to Tool or can’t even bring herself to read for pleasure. She confides in me with her mother’s recent death, her past drug habits, her attempt at online dating. A casual exchange with a 22-year-old girl. She sends a dozen texts a day and I tell her she makes me happy.