Steph and Ryan are getting married in a couple of weeks, and in honor of that we bachelorette partied it up last night. My friends have been getting married like crazy the last couple of years, which I think is excellent because I am all about my friends being happy and in love. (I think they are less all about me being happy and in love, because I have an alarming tendency to be happy and in love with, like, a bright red toaster or a story about a glowing fish that lives only on good intentions, and apparently that's not quite the same thing. Which, whatever. Boys are trouble.)
But almost everyone that's gotten married has been people that live outside of Seattle, so this is the first bachelorette party that I've gone to since I moved out here. And in honor of that, the story of my first kiss:
His name was Otis, and he was visiting a relative that was staying in our trailer park for a couple of weeks. I was in seventh grade and painfully awkward, with gigantic glasses and much too much dyed blonde hair. Otis was from Barbados, around the same age as I was, with glasses and an accent and gorgeous deep brown skin. I was fairly certain that he was the greatest boy who had ever lived.
We'd all been at the park on his last day in town, jumping off the swings and smoking cigarettes and trying to look cool, and Otis walked me home when the street lights came on. He walked me right to my front door and then said, "I'm leaving tomorrow. Can I kiss you goodbye?" His accent was thick and I sometimes had trouble understanding him, but I understood that and my heart and stomach leaped in opposite directions. I mumbled yes, completely terrified and knowing that my mom could open the door at any second. He pushed up his glasses and leaned forward and kissed me softly, and I think time actually stopped.
When time started again, kissing had moved up to the top of the list of my favorite things to do.
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