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  • I was twelve when I enjoyed my first kiss.

    His name was Andrew and he was in my art class at school. He sat behind me and teased me. I played hockey with his elder sister and she told me that he daydreamed about me all the time at home. He had floppy brown hair, brown eyes and the grin and dimples to die for. As cute as. He smelled clean. I suspect that was one of the main attractions.... a twelve year old boy that smells clean is a rarity. (And I would wager that thanks go to his Mum for that.)

    We had a date. He took me for a cup of coffee at our local Wimpy bar. This was 1981. The Wimpy bar was a greasy spoon cafe in the middle of the small city, but to be honest, I was so terrified and excited and nervous that I really didn't care. My skinny jeans were so tight, I suspect I was struggling to breath.

    We went for a walk, to a local nature spot. Priory Park. I cannot recall that place these days without a grin - the shenanigans that that green space saw, throughout my school days (and before them, and indeed, to this day, I am sure...)

    The kiss was nervous and awkward and delicious. Warm and sweet and tentative and toe curlingly exciting. We were both first kiss virgins. We were both embarrassed and shy. We both fell into tween love at that kiss and it lasted all of.........ermm, ten days? Three weeks?

    I see snaps of this Andrew on Facebook, through the connection of mutual friends. I do not interact. I smile at sweet memories though. He still has a grin and dimples to die for. With a bald spot, grey hair and a handful of children.

    And now I fast forward to my own lovely husband. Bald spot, grey hairs and a handful of children.

    I asked him over the weekend if he remembered our first kiss. He grinned and held me, and his eyes took on a sweetly reminiscent twinkle. "Our first kiss? Of course I remember, my love"

    He kissed me, like he did way back then, like a man on a mission. A confident and resounding smacker on the lips. A kiss from a man that means it.

    I was touched that he remembered. But, I have to admit, more than a little surprised. (This is a man that does not wear a wedding ring, nor ever sees reason to remember any can understand my suspicion?)

    "Really? You can remember our first kiss? Really? Where was it?"

    He laughed, and kissed me again.

    "On the lips, my love, on the lips."

    First kisses.

    Then and now.

    Warm and sweet and tentative and toe curlingly exciting.
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