Eighth grade. 1951. Karen. Sat next to her in every class. (Alphabeticall seating) I was in love. She didn't know. Afraid if I told her and she rejected me, I would die. Thirteen. Too young to die. Didn't tell her. Pain worsened ever class. Had to tell her. Couldn't.
Best friend's big brother told me I needed "a line." When I laid it on her, I blew it. She jabbed me in the leg with a pencil. Rejected. Bleeding a bit. Cracked heart. Didn't die.
She apologized. Took her to the Homecoming dance. Danced close. Our first dance. She took pictures. Walked her home. Stopped. Eyes locked. Kissed. My first kiss. Dropped her camera. Broke into a gazillion pieces. Film destroyed. She ran home crying. She dumped me, rightly, for being a jerk. I died, of course, emotionally.
After that, I was One Date Gordon, the guy a girl would date if no one else asked.
In my Junior year my buddies cadged me into dating the new girl. A better story.
© 1997-2016 Gordon Hill as of February 22, 2016