Melting Icicles
By Cath Barton

I don’t remember the first kiss. I do remember the walk back through the woods, the feeling of his arm round my shoulder, the excited fizz of that. At a certain point we stopped and he kissed me. But I don’t remember what that felt like. There’s a lot I don’t remember. But I remember the cold of that winter. The biting cold. And the icicles that hung from the high gutters of the houses in the street where I lived in a student flat. They grew downwards, like stalactites. He said they could be stalagmites. I knew they couldn’t, knew that the way to remember which was which was by thinking of the French words—‘tomber’ to fall and ‘monter’ to rise up. I knew I was right; I was the one studying French, not him. But I didn’t argue, because I wanted him to like me. I remember that. With a sinking feeling. And a sadness for my young self.