Lynn Purcell

Lynn wants you to kiss her after school

Terrified, I keep the note’s contents under wraps.

My blood tingles and introduces me to my body.

Already passing public school sex education, I know this:

A kiss can not get Lynn pregnant. No threat of rearing a child at age 10.

I swoon and cringe, knees almost buckle at this invitation, I also worry about the man idling in the parking lot. He is pleasant enough, but he does not have much patience.

The stale smell of freshly sharpened pencils is now a bouquet of chocolate and cinnamon.

I wait as the the second-hand leapfrogs over the minute and hour-hands.

Clanging of the bell interrupts the beautiful mayhem behind my eyes.

She wants me.

I slowly walk out of the classroom after the galloping hordes.

I find Lynn.

Her cheeks are red. She leans against the double doors. My smile hurts my head. Her bangs rest atop her lashes and frame her face.

I say Hi.

Honey giggles in my already echoing ears.

I pole-vault towards Lynn's lips that glisten, quiver and pulse.

They taste like Dr. Pepper.

Our smackings are sweet bombs softly exploding. They were lit by fuses of gummi bears and maraschino cherries.

Our tryst has to end. We dizzily draw away from one another.

These sensations are more powerful than my father’s El Camino that drives me home.