And I don’t know what compels me to do it, what gives me the nerve—whether it’s because I’m still riding the adrenaline high of having just written an essay that I know is really good, or because the persistent heat has subdued the impulse-control section of my brain, or because I want to startle that smug smile off his face—but just when he’s about to take the photo, I stand up tall on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. Click. The camera flashes once, capturing the kiss for eternity, and I pull back. Suddenly uncertain what to do with my mouth, my face, my hands. The aftermath of my one moment of
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