Sitting next to you, your legs across my lap - I knew it then - I was the last of those you thought would say yes to you. I wasn't second. I was last. And it was my turn. And I did say yes, to everything: the contradictions, the glares, the humiliation, and the ridicule that followed.

But I had to say yes to everything. Saying no meant not having you.

I walked through the door of the cafe. Saw you sitting there, next to the counter. Felt the heaviness of words like 'ugly' and 'shame' in your eyes and the way you spat these words at me as I passed right by you, pretending not to notice.

Two months later, a conversation:

"I don't understand. Why aren't you allowed kissing him?"

"Because kissing me is something he can't bring himself to do. It would mean him admitting that I wasn't ugly, that I didn't embarrass him, that he wasn't ashamed."

"I'd kiss you."

And he did.