Blushing
“Why
are you so fat? Mommy? Mo-o-om, why is she so fat?” the little
voice sing songed. My face flushed hot with embarrassment and I
turned away quickly. All I could think to do was try and hide
myself under my towel. It was too small to be of much use, though.
All around the locker room, there were tiny, perfect girls that had
their tiny, perfect bodies completely wrapped in towels, towels that
they could absolutely drown in. Every inch of their toned flesh
was covered up by those teeny little towels, a fact that I hate. I
always look even larger and more awkward and jiggly-skinned than I
am, in comparison. The corners of my towel, see, barely meet under
one armpit, leaving plenty of room on the side for my rolls of fat
to show themselves off between the gaping sides of the towel.
And then, just when I was ready to shove my wet body
into my clothes, go home and cry into some ice cream, maybe, just
when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, when I thought that I
couldn’t possibly be any more humiliated or possibly have any more
attention called to me, I was proven wrong. As usual.
“Miss Cammie! Hi, Miss Cammie! It’s me, Nora! I seed
you at school today! I did all my homework soon’s I got home and
it’s all in my backpack for tomorrow already! And Sarah’s comin’
home with me on the bus to spend the night!” crowed another tiny
voice. One of my students, great! Nothing calls attention to a
naked fat chick in a locker room better than a screaming
preschooler. Didn’t seem to bother her any, though. She flew
across the floor with her swimsuit hanging off one ankle and her
underwear hanging off the other, with her arms out for a hug.
It’s always really awkward when I meet one of my
students in situations like this. I mean, first of all, it just
seems somewhat inappropriate and even borderline obscene to be
hugging the kids from school when we’re both in various stages of
undress. But they always want a hug. Four-year-olds aren’t shy,
don’t have any sense of nakedness even when they’re stark naked.
Hell, they’re proud of their bodies, no matter what they look like,
and anxious to show them off to the everyone.
Besides that, though, there is the issue of the
parents. See, I am not the most confident, graceful person in the
world. I mean, when it comes to the kids, I am. I know just what
I’m doing and how to relate to them—it all comes naturally, with the
kids. The parents are another story. I never know quite how to
tell them when their kid is having problems in school. Or how to
talk to them about anything. I am the teacher here, but I always
feel like they outrank me, somehow. Like they are the real adults
and I’m just playing grown-up and hoping they don’t notice that the
high heels I’m teetering around in are 6 sizes too big and my
lipstick is crooked. Of course, that’s just an example, and not
even a real one; I would never wear high heels to school, or
lipstick, either. I don’t carry things like that off very well.
I’m not quite that sophisticated. But you get what I mean, anyway.
I hate parent-teacher conferences. I have to sit there
all day long and face a never-ending line of the people I fear
most. I break out in a cold sweat just trying to figure out what to
wear, much less what to say to them. I always feel like a total
imposter.
And you know that cold, clammy, shaky feeling you get
when you’re in a situation like that, forced into doing something
you’re petrified to do? Multiply that by, like, a billion. That’s
how I feel when I run into one of the parents while I’m naked in the
locker room, struggling to be invisible while I try to cover my
ugly, flabby body with clothes and shake hands at the same time. I
wish they could feel as awkward as I do. I cannot begin to
understand how they can just approach me when I am sitting here
naked as a three-hundred-pound jaybird and act as if everything is
totally normal, like we’re in the grocery store or something.
I skip the gym a lot in the fall, up until the first
round of parent-teacher conferences, anyway. The only thing that
can make running into parents while I’m stark raving naked worse is
meeting them for the first time while I’m stark raving
naked. And the kids don’t have that filter that says, “Hey, there’s
a naked person here. Better leave her alone.” They run up to me,
all excited, going “Mom! Mommy, mommymommymommy! This is Miss
Cammie, from school!” And then everyone in the entire locker room
looks at Miss Cammie, and Miss Cammie wants to crawl into one of the
lockers and suffocate herself with the smelly, mildew-y, wet towel
that will inevitably be inside the one she chooses.
Except, Miss Cammie wouldn’t fit in the locker anyway,
because she’s fat. Ginormously fat, and now anyone who wasn’t aware
of that fact knows, because little Suzy is so proud of her teacher
that she wants everyone to know who Miss Cammie is. That part feels
good, anyway, knowing I am so important to the kids.
And on the up side, I am now totally immune to
embarrassment of any kind. Which, being who I am, is an amazingly
good thing.
Driving home from the gym, I rounded a curve in the road
to see the Devil looming ahead. Okay, so it was just the Golden
Arches, but close enough. After a massive internal struggle, I
found myself turning into the driveway and parking my car. Maybe I
was completely derailing the two hours I had just spent working out
by giving in to that ninety-nine cent six pack of McNuggets, but at
least I parked at the far side of the parking lot. The walk to the
door probably worked off a tenth of one of those warm, crispy, salty
pieces of chicken.
I went inside and ordered not one, but two, six piece
McNuggets before I could stop myself. I got a large diet Coke to go
with it, though. I read this thing on the Internet once that said
if you get something with lots of calories and then get diet pop to
go with it, they cancel each other out. I refuse to believe that
statement was made in humor rather than truth.
I searched the restaurant desperately for a table with
chairs. Those damn booths are hard to squeeze into, and how are you
supposed to eat with a table cutting off the circulation to your
entire midsection? There were no tables open, though, so I was
forced to slide into a booth. A tight fit, to be sure, but I could
at least breathe. Maybe working out was doing some good after all.
I pulled a copy of Cosmo out of my purse and settled down to
undo everything I had accomplished at the gym.
I was startled out of a deep, philosophical article
about the virtues of skinny jeans by a guy wearing a McDonald’s
uniform. A very cute guy, who was probably a good ten years younger
than me, but wow! He was asking me something. Between the
fascinating list of reasons why skinny jeans are more versatile than
a little black dress, and this man/boy’s soulful eyes, I was a bit
distracted. I rewound what he had said in my mind and then answered
the question I guessed that he had asked me (Do you need a refill?)
with a standard, “No, thanks. I’m fine.”
But, judging by the look on his face, I had said or done
something very wrong. Seldom have I seen such a look of confusion.
“Okay, Ma’am,” he said, and walked away slowly. So much
for my little crush. Ma’am? He had called me Ma’am! Even if I
was ten years older than him, everyone always says I look young
for my age! And now, he thought I was a freak, too. Because as he
approached the next table and repeated his question, I could hear
him clearly.
“Excuse me, are you Anita Hill?”
Good GOD, why do I always do that? I should know better
than to read in public. I always get so lost in whatever I’m
reading, even if it is just Cosmo, that I totally lose touch
with the real world. Besides which, I’m deaf in one ear, so my
hearing is off anyway. It’s not totally my fault. I threw
away my remaining 5 McNuggets and walked out of the restaurant with
my head held high. And as soon as I was safely in my car, I let out
a whoop of uncontained laughter. I have gotten quite good at
laughing at myself over the years, and I even enjoy it most of the
time. “Misunderhearing” people (that’s what a friend of mine calls
it; I misunderstand, but mainly as a result of my lack of hearing
skills) is one of my many useless talents. And “Anita Hill” and
“need a refill” could be confused by anyone. Couldn’t they?
I cranked the radio on the way home and sang out loud
with it, still giggling a little between verses. Figured it would
help me forget about my little mishap. But still, in the back of my
mind, I couldn’t help going over and over the incident. I could
just imagine the guy from McDonald’s telling all his friends about
it later. He would tell them all about the fat lady at work who was
obviously mentally impaired, and they would all laugh. His pretty
blonde girlfriend would throw her hair back in near hysterics and he
would casually drape his arm around her shoulders as they laughed.
Because, of course he would have a beautiful
girlfriend. All those attractive types do. Hell, everyone has
someone. Everyone except me. I turned down the radio and lapsed
into deep, dark, depressing thoughts as I pulled up to a stoplight,
then turned and headed home.
I woke up the next morning with an aching back and a
terrible headache. And all I wanted to do was cry. I hate it when
the stupid depression sets in. Most of the time I’m fine, pretty
mentally stable, but then every so often, I get like this. It’s
like all I can think of is being alone. I come home alone at night,
make dinner for myself, and then go to bed, all alone. I just crave
human contact. There is no one at all that I can even touch. I
want to feel warm, living, human flesh against my skin. But, it
just won’t happen. And you can’t lie in bed forever crying, even if
you want to.
So, I got up and cried my way through my shower and
breakfast before I headed to school. At least I have the kids to
make me smile. I can get some human contact through them. Not
exactly the kind of contact I crave, but I do get lots of hugs.
I cringed when I walked into the classroom. Sarah was
running toward me, full tilt, talking excitedly and very loudly.
“Hi, Miss Cammie! Nora said she saw you at the gym last
night when she went swimmin’! And she talked to you! And she said
you were n—”
I froze when I heard the “n” sound coming out of her
mouth. Naked. She was going to say naked, and she was going to
tell them all how fat and ugly I was and then the little kids were
going to hate me just as much as the rest of the world already did.
It was just one of those days.
But she didn’t.
“—not even wearing your hair up like you do here! I
wish I got to see you outside of school.”
“Well, Sarah, maybe someday you will. Let’s go join the
others for a story.” Wow, that was close. But I made it through
the rest of the day with no other problems, so it must have been a
good omen of some sort. And, just like always, the kids managed to
make me smile.
It was Friday. It had to be Friday, had no choice but
to be Friday, because I couldn’t stand another weekday even if I
tried. Two and a half whole days to sit around and do absolutely
nothing. Except be depressed, probably, but there are ways around
that. Like sitting in a hot tub, for instance. No one can sit in a
hot tub and be depressed. So, I called upon a couple of friends,
Rob and Jake, to accompany me to the Y and attempt to cheer me up.
Attempt. That was all I asked.
Of course, things never go that smoothly in my life. We
got there and I managed to change without too much trouble. There
were no little kids drawing undue attention to me in the locker room
or anything this time. I even got a locker in an empty row so I
didn’t have to close my eyes to avoid watching the supermodel types
change while I half-hid behind my locker door to change myself. So
that was good, anyway. And I met Rob and Jake in the hall outside
of the hot tub, so I didn’t have to brave it alone at all. And then
my usual luck came rushing back.
It all started when Rob and I noticed that Jake was
staring at something, totally zoned out. And Rob asked him what he
was looking at.
“Nothing. Just that lifeguard.”
So Rob asked him if the lifeguard was hot. Completely
innocently. I’m sure he didn’t mean to cause any trouble. It’s
just that we all like to tease each other, have a little fun. So
Jake turned into a smart aleck and said he couldn’t decide if the
dude was hot or not, that’s why he was staring. And that was where
I entered into the equation. The next few moments of my life all
happened in slow motion, just like in the movies. It was exactly
like a movie, really. I was the female version of Chevy Chase, all
of a sudden, the queen of awkwardness.
“I’ll letcha know if he’s hot!” I heard myself proclaim
loudly. I say I heard myself because that was how it happened. I
did not intend to say it, at all, I swear. I was totally not in
control of my speech. And then I felt myself stand up and slowly
make my way across the hot tub. About halfway across, I think (I’m
not sure, because I was staring intently at the lifeguard, not
looking where I was walking), the lifeguard looked toward the hot
tub. Our eyes met. It was like the falling-in-love scene in a
movie. I could practically see hearts pulsing at the point where
our gazes met, even though I’m pretty sure he wasn’t seeing or
thinking or even considering the same thing.
And at the exact moment that our eyes met, while we were
staring intently into one another’s souls, I reached the edge of the
hot tub. Unexpectedly. And I stubbed my toe and tripped over the
seat. Fell. Smashed my head into the floor on the edge of the hot
tub, hard. The hearts I had seen only seconds before turned into
stars and tweeting birds circling in a halo above my head.
Of course, my dear friends didn’t let me have any time
to regain a sense of dignity, or to come up with any way to explain
what had happened so I didn’t look quite so stupid. Instead, they
burst out laughing. And asked me if he was hot. Loudly. Leaving
no question in the lifeguard’s mind, whatsoever, about what I had
been looking at, or why. Good thing I’m immune to embarrassment.
The fun stayed with me for a while after I got home. I
didn’t need to stop at McDonald’s for reinforcement this time. Not
that I would have gone to McDonald’s anyway, to risk being
recognized, but the point is that I just went home, French
fry-free. It seems like I always manage to humiliate myself. I
don’t mind, really. It’s kinda funny, gives me something laugh
about. The thing is, I am so many things besides silly and klutzy
and funny. I’m smart, too, and I really care about people. But
when I am constantly making a fool of myself, I’m not sure if that
comes across. My greatest fear is that the rest of the world will
think I’m just a brainless, blundering idiot. Then people won’t
like me for my intelligence, my class. And they sure aren’t going
to like me for my looks. So what’s left?
My sense of humor, that’s what’s left. But that won’t
get me far. Not when everyone else has one, too. Friday night I
spent in bed, alone, crying.
Monday morning dawned bright and clear. Okay, so it
didn’t really, but that always seems like such a great way to
describe a morning. In reality, it was cloudy and a little cold.
Cold enough to wear my pink sweater dress, even, which did brighten
my outlook on the day, at least. It’s my favorite thing to wear, my
go-to confidence outfit. And confidence was something I really
needed.
Of course, though, something had to go wrong, otherwise
it would have been someone else’s life instead of mine. My
underwear drawer was empty. Absolutely empty. Turns out, when I’m
depressed, I don’t do laundry. Didn’t bother me terribly much,
though. There was one point in time when I decided that body
confidence, rather than an entirely new body, was all I needed, and
in a fit of insanity, I bought myself a bikini. I was just so
astounded to see a bikini in my size that I was completely
shell-shocked and the part of me that normally would have said,
“Uh-uh. Not a good idea,” failed to kick in.
It’s a hideous bikini, too. Neon green with big black
polka dots. Even if I had a body like Twiggy’s, I wouldn’t wear the
thing. Not that that stopped me from buying it, of course. And
now, I was glad I had. I slipped on the bottom half of the bikini
and pulled on my pantyhose over it. Once I had my sweater dress and
knee boots on, I was ready to strut off to work, on the top of the
world.
I was restocking the art shelves when the kids got
there. Nora came over to me as soon as she walked in to give me a
hug. She stood behind me, off to one side, almost touching my hip,
and chattered on and on about her weekend with Sarah while I
continued placing paint and crayons and glue sticks on the shelves.
Suddenly, she stopped herself, mid-sentence.
“Miss Cammie, what’s that?” she asked and slapped my on
the rear. I jumped when she did and spun around.
“What’s what?”
“I can see something on your bum,” she told me
seriously, then giggled. I twisted my head and bent my body in a
futile attempt to see what she was talking about, but I could only
see about as far as my shoulder. I was always getting something
stuck on me, though; the room was full of stickers and static clings
and felt story boards.
“I don’t know, just something I sat on, probably. No
big deal.” I led Nora back to the others and situated them by the
rocking chair so one of the other girls could read them a story. I
went across the room and leaned against the wall to listen and offer
assistance if the kids got too rambunctious. Maureen, one of the
other teachers, came over to me, leaned close. I bent my head
toward her, expecting to hear something funny one of the kids had
said, or maybe even something she was concerned about with one of
them.
“Um, Cam?” she whispered, eyes aimed at my rear.
“Yeah?”
“You have—um, I’m not sure how to—there’s something
showing through your dress.”
Something showing through my dress? My mind raced.
What could she be talking about? All that was under my dress was my
pantyhose and my underwear, and you wouldn’t be able to see those.
Maybe a sock had gotten staticked to it in the dryer or something,
though—oh. Oh, God. My underwear. Or rather, my screaming neon
bikini bottom.
“Is it—is it a bright green something, with big black
dots?” I asked her, careful not to burst into snorts of embarrassed
laughter.
“Um, yeah, actually. It does appear to be a little
greenish, and there are most definitely some large black dots. Goes
really well with the pink dress.”
“Thanks, Maureen. I feel good about that.”
I exited the room and disappeared into the staff
restroom. Great. Now what? It wasn’t like I had a spare pair of
underwear stashed in my purse or something, but I couldn’t keep
wearing them all day. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that the
brightest swimsuit in the world might possibly show through my pale
pink dress? I giggled to myself a little while I perused my
options. Which didn’t take long, because there were only two: leave
them on, or take them off. And of course, I would have to take them
off. There was no way I was going to explain to the kids or the
other teachers that I wasn’t a big fan of doing laundry so I just
wore a swimsuit instead of underwear. I unzipped my boots and
kicked them off so I could take the stupid bikini bottom off. When
I was finished, I replaced my pantyhose. At least I still had those
to wear. I balled up the bikini bottom and stared at it.
“Cam, you in there? We’re trying to get our art project
started and we could really use you,” Maureen called through the
bathroom door.
“Yep, coming,” I replied, still giggling softly. And
when I absentmindedly walked through the doorway with the bikini
bottom still balled up in my hand, my giggles turned to a
full-fledged fit of laughter. Maureen looked at me awkwardly and
then joined me in my mirth.
“Um, what are you going to do with those?” she finally
managed to say. She had the grace not to ask me why the hell I was
wearing them in the first place.
“I have no idea,” I muttered through clenched teeth as
the kids trouped out of the classroom with the head teacher to see
what we were laughing at. I casually slid my hand behind my back
and took baby steps backwards toward the bathroom, hoping to keep my
fashion faux pas hidden from all the prying little four-year-old
eyes. No such luck. I bumped into the door frame, my hand sprung
open, and the offending bikini bottom fell to the floor. Before I
could even register what had happened, one of the kids had sprinted
toward me yelling out, “What’s that?” as he grabbed it. It’s a good
thing pink and red are in the same color family, because otherwise,
my face would really have clashed with my dress.
The only thing that got me through the rest of the day
was the knowledge that it was Margarita Monday at the Mexican dive
bar down the street from my house. Once I got home, I allowed
myself a couple of hours to sit around and be depressed that all the
embarrassing things have to happen to the fat chick who’s already at
a disadvantage, socially. Two hours is my limit, though. Pity
parties are no fun, and besides, I really needed that margarita. Or
a couple of them. Five or six, at most. After the day I had, I
deserved it. I called Kelly, my margarita buddy, and headed out to
meet her at the bar.
When the waitress asked me what kind of margarita I
wanted, I may have frightened her a little.
“Regular, strawberry, cherry, blackberry, peach, or
strawberry banana?” she rattled off.
“Mmm, one of each,” I told her. I wasn’t serious, of
course. I mean, if she had brought them to me, I probably would
have tried to finish them, but I really wasn’t serious. She stared
at me warily.
“Are you—serious?” she asked.
“If I said yes, would that make me an alcoholic?”
Kelly shot me a look and slapped my shoulder. “She’ll
have blackberry. Bring me one of those, too.” And when the
waitress had gone to put our order in, she said, “Cam, what exactly
is wrong with you tonight?”
“Oh, you don’t even want to know.” I told her about my
day and about the hot tub incident from Friday, too. By the time we
got our drinks, we were both laughing so hard we were crying. The
man who brought us our drinks shut me right up, though. The one
time that I cannot make any noise at all, not even to talk, is in
the presence of a man I am attracted to. And this man definitely
fit that description. I stared at him as he set our drinks down and
took out his pencil to take our order. I reached for my glass of
water as I stared at him, unable to take my eyes from his gorgeous
face. When I lifted it to my lips, icy water splashed down my chin
and soaked my shirt. I sputtered and slammed my glass onto the
table. Except, it wasn’t my glass. I saw immediately what the
problem was. I had picked up the entire carafe of water to drink
from! Even the freezing water wasn’t enough to cool my burning
face, especially when I ventured a glance at the waiter and noticed
that he had, indeed, noticed my mishap. He was grinning broadly at
me.
“If ya need a bigger glass, I can bring ya a carafe of
your own.” His voice, with just the faintest hint of a Puerto Rican
accent, matched his dark skin and inky black hair perfectly. My
insides turned to jelly and I didn’t have any ability at all to
speak. Luckily, Kelly stepped in for me again.
“Nah, I think she’s fine. She’ll make do with her
glass.” They both laughed at me while I struggled to regain control
of my mouth. Well, with me, I guess, really, but I couldn’t seem to
laugh, either.
“Oh, my God, that was horrible!” I mumbled when he had
walked away, finally.
“So ya like the waiter, do ya?”
“He’s kinda cute, I guess.” I lifted my margarita and
drained the glass in one drink. By the time the waiter reappeared
with our food fifteen minutes later, I had finished another. When
he bent with his back toward us to set the tray on the table next to
us, Kelly glanced at him appreciatively.
“He is a cutie, isn’t he?
Buenas nalgas.”
She said the last just as he turned to place our plates
in front of us. He grinned at me.
“Well, thanks!” he said. I couldn’t talk, of course, so
I couldn’t tell him to thank Kelly, not me.
“Buenas what?” I asked her when he had once again
left us alone.
“Nalgas. Nice buns, roughly translated.”
“Oh, great! He thinks I think he has a nice butt?
Thanks!”
“Well, you do, don’t you?”
This day was just getting better and better. I suppose
most women my age wouldn’t be nearly as horrified if a man overheard
that they thought he was attractive, but things like that don’t go
well for me. I am not the kind of woman that men want to be
attracted to them. I’m pretty sure they don’t even take it as a
compliment, because they’re too busy trying to figure out how
they’re going to evade the fat ass without being completely rude.
No guy wants to have to deal with some fat chick fawning over him.
And yet, sad as they are, there is only way to deal with
these situations. Soon, we were laughing uproariously again.
Crying again, even. It was probably even worse this time, with a
couple of margaritas in us. Laughing that hard makes it hard to
hold liquids in yourself. I excused myself and walked blindly
toward the hall that the restrooms are in. I swung the door open
with my elbow and burst into the room, still laughing.
There was someone in the bathroom already, though. I
could see his back when I walked through the door. Yes, his.
Even through the tears in my eyes, I could see that it was
definitely a man. A quick glance around told me what I feared most:
I had walked into the wrong bathroom. My laughter fell off sharply
and I backed toward the door, tripping on the garbage can and
slamming into the wall as I did. As the man turned to see what all
the commotion was about, I saw his face. Of course it would be the
waiter.
I swung around and ran into the door before I finally
made it out of the wrong bathroom and into the right one. I sat
there for a good ten or fifteen minutes trying to gather myself
before I went and joined Kelly again. I glared at her when she
asked what had taken so long, so she graciously dropped the issue
and ordered me another margarita. By the time we left the bar, when
they closed at eleven, I was pretty much okay again. I still hadn’t
told Kelly about my little bathroom adventure, because every time I
even though about it, my face caught on fire and my eyes teared up,
but I was able to talk, at least, and I wasn’t completely convinced
that I should spend the rest of my life locked up in my bedroom
anymore.
As we started to walk back toward my apartment, someone
yelled, “Hey! Hey, hold up for a second.”
I turned and looked behind me. It was the waiter from
the bar.
“I wanna talk to ya for a minute, wait.”
We stopped and waited for him to catch up to us. I hung
back to let him talk to Kelly. He made it hard, though, because he
kept dropping back to walk next to me, forcing me to step back out
of the way. Finally, he gave up and walked next to Kelly, leaving
me trailing behind. I hate being the third wheel, but it always
happens. Whenever I go out with someone, there’s always some guy
that starts a conversation with whoever I’m with and I get left to
my own devices.
When we got back to my house, we all sat down on my
porch and continued our conversation. Well, they did, anyway. I,
of course, sat silently, trying to come up with some way to excuse
myself politely so they could be alone. Finally, Kelly stood up and
yawned.
“I better get going. I have to be up in 6 hours.” The
waiter said goodbye, and I managed a weak wave as she got into her
car.
“I thought she’d never leave,” the waiter said, looking
at me. “Now I finally get to talk to you. I’m Raul.”
I was so shocked that it was me he wanted to talk to
that I forgot to forget how to talk. “I’m Cammryn. Cam.”
“I just wanted to tell you—well, I was wondering if
maybe you wanted to hang out some time. You seem like you’d be a
lot of fun to chill with,”
That explained it. I was just funny, silly, goofy Cam.
Of course he wasn’t really interested in me as a woman. A pang of
disappointment slid down my throat, through my stomach, and sank
slowly to my toes. But, at least I didn’t have to be nervous
anymore.
“Cool, I’d like that.”
“Great.”
I stood up and started up the stairs.
“I really should get some sleep. I have to work in the
morning, and with all the tequila in me, I should probably get as
much sleep as I can.”
Raul stood and followed me up the stairs. I turned and
leaned against the door while he pulled a scrap of paper and a
pencil from his pocket and scribbled something on it.
“Here’s my number,” he said, and handed it to me. “Give
me a call sometime.”
I knew then that we would never really hang out.
Finally managing to talk to the guy was one thing, but I would never
be able to call him. I sighed.
“Oh, c’mon. Smile. You’re pretty when you smile.”
I did smile, then, a little sadly, but I smiled,
anyway. And he leaned toward me. It was then that I realized what
was going on. I’m pretty when I smile. He had said so! And
he was leaning toward me. I could see his lips moving slowly toward
mine. I don’t have much experience with these things, but from what
I gather, you’re supposed to close your eyes when someone kisses
you. Besides, it just seems awkward to keep staring at them. But
that was exactly what I did, because I was in total and complete
shock. He was going to kiss me, going to kiss me, going to kiss me…
the words echoed through my head.
He stepped forward slightly. As he did, his foot bumped
mine. He jerked to one side a little as he tripped, then quickly
leaned in for his kiss. Which landed on my front door. When he
tried to recover, he stepped squarely on my foot, and when he jumped
off of my foot he nearly fell down the stairs before catching
himself on the guard rail.
“Damnit!” he muttered. “These things always happen to
me!”
I broke into a smile, almost laughing out loud. Then I
took his face in my hands and kissed him. When we broke apart, my
face was once again flushed and red. And not from embarrassment,
this time.
