This is how I imagine I will tell the story of us:
When I was sixteen I spent six months cuddling, laughing and picking my bra up off the same guy's floor once a week, every week. He would pick me up in front of my house and we would hold hands on the way to his house while he told me about traffic and family and jobs and his dependence on caffeine. And sometimes when we stopped at a red light he would rest his head on my shoulder and if a song he liked was playing he'd lift our intertwined fingers into a fist bump just to make me giggle. We'd pull up to his house and he'd tell me who was there by the number of cars parked out front. Then we'd get out and hold hands up the path to his door breaking momentarily so he could unlock it. His dog didn't bark after the first two weeks and after I took my shoes off I'd always back up into the family room and sit on my heels to rub its stomach. Once he got his boots off we intertwine fingers once again and climb the stairs, sometimes I'd lead, sometimes he would. There was a small ledge that stuck out from the wall and I would always rest my elbows there while he fumbled with his keys again to unlock his bedroom door. Then he'd open the door and sit on the bed while I took off my jacket and set my old, cracked crossover purse on the bedside table resting on the wall. He'd talk about choosing a movie from his collection but that would just lead to me telling him I didn't know what we should watch and that I really didn't mind. Then he'd look up from his post, simultaneously pulling me to him and I'd lean down to kiss him. Every time. We both knew we wouldn't be watching the movie for long. And so we'd lay down, my head on his chest and after a few minutes he'd kiss my forehead and I'd look up, and he'd kiss me so softly, so slowly, so lovingly that I knew he knew exactly what he did to me. And that's how it went.