When I was 16, one year off from a drivers license, I pushed my parents’ Chevrolet down the driveway, started the engine, and headed off.
A girl I was wooing called and said we needed to talk. There was only two ways this conversation could go, either her telling me she liked me or she was sticking with her new boyfriend.
During the summer we had seen much of each other at the swim club. One night she let her feelings for me be known. I rebuffed her. Then when school got going, I changed my mind.
Problem was she moved on and had a new boy friend. I kept calling her on the phone anyway, and we’d been just talking.
I pulled up where she was waiting and she got in. I had driven a few times before so I was comfortable driving.
While I cruised, she talked. Her boyfriend told her not to see me or talk to me anymore.
I pulled into the library parking lot and killed the engine. Under the orange streetlights, we looked like two orders up under a warming light.
I blabbed like never before: I made a mistake; I should have told you I liked you this summer, and I still do; I’ve never had a girl friend; I don’t now how to do this; I suck; I’ve never made out; I don’t know how to kiss.
I stopped talking, spent.
She slid over and said, “I want to do this for you.” Her face zoomed in. My eyes blurred out. Soft lips covered mine. A warm tongue invited itself in. There was no hurry.
We traced peace signs on the steamed up windshield.
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
I drove her back to where her boyfriend was waiting.