Baffle, v
You and I stood, bathed in orange light, under a lamppost that was right outside your house. My blazer was too big and so hung loosely off your shoulders; you had to keep it on by holding onto the shoulder pads. I was leaning against the lamppost, looking down at you curiously, the idea of my dress shirt getting ruined by the grime on the pole at the far back of my mind.
This was the first date. You were suspicious and beautiful.
And you kissed me first. I had no idea how you managed to reach my lips, as short as you were (even in your heels), and I was surprised that you should kiss me first – or kiss me at all after the night that we had had.
Yet you had, and it wasn't a problem. Not a problem at all. I'd been wanting to do it since I picked you up hours ago, at this exact spot, with the setting sun bathing us in a different kind of orange.
You, my love, always knew what you wanted, and you weren't going to wait for me to catch up. You kissed me first; I met your parents first; you declared your love before me; you suggested living together first; you suggested children first. I never even had a shot at proposing to you, before the words were coming from your own mouth.
How did you know that it would be okay to do all these things? How did you know that we were alright every time, when I couldn't even see it myself sometimes?
Dear Hermione, my dear Hermione. How were you so Gryffindor all the time?
