Saturday, 22 September 2012

[SUMMER OF 65's KISS] - Wk3

The summer of 65’, brown-grassed, warm hazy days that were cooled by unexpected water balloon bursts, ice-cold against my skin. You’d thrown a-plenty, this funny twitching grin playing about your lips…fizzy orange soda-pop covered lips, sticky but lickably yummy, and if I’d let you read my private journal, the sissy one covered in pink cherry flavoured stickers that you’d always wanted to sneakily snitch out of my hands, you’d a-known I had secretly wanted to kiss you.

I’d used to write in that journal every single night, sat in the fork of Papa’s apple tree just outside my bedroom window. High up there among the moonbeams, hidden in the dark green leaves and red, heart-shaped fruit, I’d used to write all about you. And, sometimes, if I was brave enough to take a wicked peek at your lit-up bedroom window, I’d used to see things that had make my innocent brown eyes pop wide open. My eyelashes would sweep down hurriedly then, and the giggles welled up so deliciously in my stomach, would rip free. Of course, I’d try my very best to smother them out so you wouldn’t hear me. I’d grab an apple, and stuff my mouth full of crunchy, sour sweetness, my mind only imagining what you were getting up to in your blinding twinkly-bottomed state. Elvis Presley, playing on your creaky-squeaking record player, used to have you doing all sorts of goofy moves, and oh boy, would you have turned but a brilliant shade of tomato red if you’d a-seen me spying while you’d shuffle-danced to ‘Blue Suede Shoes’!

I’d loved you every night, but had hated you every day. Because, oh, you’d been unbearable! Remember how you’d make me yelp and shriek? If it hadn’t been water balloons, it’d been slimy frogs legs or wriggling, squiggling worms. I’d be dancing around, one foot then the other, on hot coals of fury, waving my infuriated fists and glaring you down to shreds with my evil eyeballs. Threatening to knock your two front teeth out, especially your front left tooth, because it’d been chipped so cute as a result of that knee scraping, pinky breaking, nasty bike fall by the river, it made my knees turn to wobbling Jell-O.

I’d spent all that summer wishing you’d stop believing in girl cooties, but you never did. And so I’d never gotten that first kiss.

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