Free Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List by Rachel Cohn

the one with the T.A. serenading you at BBar with ‘Don’t You Want Me’ was kinda funny. The one with the guy who wanted you to write your phone number on his dick with a Sharpie—not so much. And I’m still not entirely sure why that guy gave you the maple syrup. I guess the truth is, I like you better in person.”
    “That’s funny. I’ve always liked Naomi’s version of me the best. I’m always much more interesting when she talks about me.”
    “Well, maybe you’re mistaken,” I say.
    And he looks me in the eye and says, “Well, maybe I am.”
    The two of us are just sitting there. And it’s not as if the air is charged with sexual electricity. But the air isn’t empty, either. It’s just a . . . normal moment. We’re living in real time.
    “And how are you a mutant?” I ask.
    “Well,” he says, “my skull is made of titanium. I have the ability to read minds and part seas. I can make my left arm invisible, if I’m wearing blue. I only need an hour of sleep every night. And I have a third nipple, too.”
    “Your skull is made of titanium?”
    He leans in. “Yeah. Wanna see?”
    And it is like electricity now. That first shock. Then the amazement that it happened. I touch his hair, his skull underneath. All the fragile non-fragile parts.
    Hands in his hair, fingers touching the back of his head, I know this is not love.
    But I am afraid—I am amazed—that it could be.
    I wish my heart were titanium, too.

NAOMI
    MO(U)RNING

    So maybe I’m sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park, centered inside the pulse at the heart of the city that doesn’t sleep. So maybe it’s just me here, and some joggers, a few commuters rushing to their, thebums, all of us sharing the view of dawn rising over the Empire State Building and Midtown off in the distance.
    But I know the difference. Everyone else is a ghost. I exist here alone, stranded by choice. Deserted.
    I’m like Columbus. I discovered this island. It’s mine now. I hereby claim sole custody.
    Maybe this island bench used to be the one where Ely and I would hunker down around dawn, after parties, before going home. Once upon a time, this was the bench where he’d place my head in his lap and stroke my hair (or vice versa), where we created our private island for passing the time to let the substances subside before we returned to the nightmare our parents created. In the parallel universe of Naomi & Ely, this might be the spot where, if one half of our equation hadn’t decided to kiss my boyfriend, Ely would be coaxing me into a sunrise nap at this very moment, protectively placing a blanket over my body and snarling at any dude who dared ogle me with preying eyes. (Of course, I’d offer up the same Fuck Off glare to all the gay boys returning home from their late-night clubbing who’d dare offer up a smile Ely’s way. I give great snarl. I’m not entirely without talent.)
    (Maybe Ely didn’t snarl at the men ogling me. Maybe I only wanted him to.)
    Is this what divorce feels like—complete failure? Dad may have moved out over a year ago, but only now do I understand why, still, the only time Mom wants to get out of bed is when she has to. She’s yet to file the official papers, but the word— divorce —creeps and crawls, taunts, all over the marital bed where she’s taken refuge. Mom knows the other words— adultery, separation —found their way to her bed. Divorce will, too, when it’s ready.
    I’ll take bench over bed. Still.
    On weekends when we were in high school, while all hell broke loose between our parents, Ely and I would take refuge in his room and play a game of Turn Back the Clock. We imagined the late ’90s, before all hell broke loose in New York City and the rest of the world, to be a good era to reinvent, so we’d pass lazy Sundays on his bed, listening to early Britney, middle Spice Girls, and late Lilith Fair chicks, or watching DVDs of TV shows that used to air on the former teen angst WB network. I loved