French Lesson
After a high school dance,
I played chicken with my emotions.
Whitney put a finger over her lips,
winked, and with her other hand,
she guided through the shadows along
the neatly trimmed shrubs behind the school.
I shook off my coat and handed it to Whitney.
She put it on and smiled.
Our breath escaped with sweet nothings.
Whitney, my date, had an inch on me.
She threw her arms around my neck.
And she kissed me by the basketball courts.
The moon was full, casting enough light
to lose myself in her green eyes.
It was as if we were in a serene forest
surrounded by evergreen trees,
and the passion between us was palpable.
It was the first time I tasted strawberry wine
on someone’s breath.
Whitney replaced Pepsi with wine.
She asked if I wanted a taste.
I said yes, even though I didn’t.
What was I doing?
I couldn’t kiss, but I searched
her eyes for a grade.
Did I pass or fail?
Whitney pressed her lips
to mine again, so I passed.
It was our freshman year
of high school, and she told
a friend, who told my friend,
who told me that she had a thing
for me.
I wasn’t special, not at all,
not like her wealthy friends.
What she saw in me, I still can’t see.
But what I saw in her was more
than I learned in French class.
A French kiss sufficed for extra credit.
We’ll celebrate our tenth anniversary soon.
(© 2024 AC)
