Faster

When we were fifteen, my best friend got a moped—a shiny, black motorized scooter with a cushioned seat. We were too young for licenses but old enough to want. We waited until dark to pull the moped from the garage, my heart pounding against my ribs, threatening to break through. 

What I remember: The puttering noise it made when she turned the tiny key in the ignition and pushed the clutch. Our oversized helmets. My arms wrapped gently around her torso, fingers locked and resting on the softness of her stomach. Left handlebar brake. The crunching of rocks under the thin tires as we pulled slowly out of her driveway, into the darkness of South Jersey back roads. Right handlebar gas. Summer air. The moon lighting the way. Thirty-five miles per hour feeling like a hundred. Adrenaline, like a drug. The ends of her hair, whipping my face in the breeze. The citrus smell of her shampoo. The blending of safety and danger. Almost freedom. Her, not knowing I loved her. Me, not knowing I could. No talking over the reverberating sound of the engine. The long minutes in between departure and arrival. 

The destination was an older boy’s house with no furniture or parents. I watched her kiss him instead of me. His fingers in her hair, the tip of her tongue grazing the backs of his teeth. And though it stung like a cracked rib piercing skin, at least we’d still have the ride home. 

Jackie Domenus (they/she) is a queer writer from New Jersey and the author of No Offense: A Memoir in Essays, published with ELJ Editions. A former Sundress Academy for the Arts resident and Tin House Workshop graduate, Jackie’s work has appeared in HuffPost, The Normal School, The Offing, Pidgeonholes, and elsewhere. More at byjackied.com.  

This essay first appeared in Foglifter Journal volume 7, issue 1 (2022).