Forgotten First Kiss

Her eyes softened, as if I was a guru and had just given her a key to happiness. “You’re so right. You’re always so right. So right for me.” She wedged herself between me and the stove for a minute.

We ate dinner, played a round of backgammon, which I won, for once, and then I read her another chapter in Jane Eyre. She could read herself by now, obviously, but she asked if I would read to her anyway.

I obliged.

“There’s someone in the attic?” Danica gasped when I read that reference. “Oh, my gosh! Who is it? It’s not a ghost, is it? Is someone alive?” She was on the edge of the couch, leaning toward me.

I set my phone with the book’s text face down on the coffee table, which was an arm’s length away. “We’ll read more about it after we’ve had dessert.”

She clearly knew I wasn’t referring to the cake she’d made, because she leaped forward and landed on top of me, giving me the beginnings of a passionate kiss—in a not-so-safe position.

I scooted to the side a little, to give her more room, and to extract myself from more danger than I was ready to endure, and beneath me, the sofa cushion shifted. We were falling.

The inexorable power of gravity took control of both of us. I clutched Danica, but at the same time, she rolled—toward the edge of the couch, and soon—whump!

We were on the slats of the hardwood floor. Me, on top of her. Danica facing up, her eyes squeezed shut, as if in atrocious pain.

“What made that awful sound?” In a flash, I was off her, standing to help her to her feet. “Danica? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Slowly, her eyes cracked open. Discernment filled them, and she stared up at me. “Did you hurt me? Jeremy?”

“Come on. Let me help you up.” I extended my hand, and I bent to lift her.

Danica just looked at my hand like it was a piece of rotting fish. “Jeremy Hotston, what in the world are you doing in my house? And on top of me?” She rubbed the back of her head.

“Danica?” I asked, my voice smaller than it had been in years. “Danica.”

“You’d better get yourself out of here before I call the police. I’m pretty sure there was no expiration date on that restraining order I requested against you at Angelica’s wedding. Get out. Get. Out.” Her voice was low, menacing, and serious as death.

“Good-bye.” I dusted myself off, picked up my keys and jacket, and closed her door softly behind me as I left.

The jig was up.