Bobs, Part 3b

Editorial note: Because my children do not know me and likely cannot see me as anything/anyone other than their mother, these next parts may be difficult for them to read. Of course, they do not have to read them. It is difficult enough for me to write, although it is all quite innocent, just not motherly. But, hey, I was 13.

Bob Small gave me, or got from me, my first kiss. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon. We sat on the retaining wall and talked. He was holding my hands, telling me something. I wasn't listening. The way he held my hands was sending something electric and quite shocking into me. I could feel whatever it was move in my blood, but I couldn't move. I certainly could not look at him.

"Your hands look like a little boy's hands," he said.
I stared down at my hands. "They are, " I said, without knowing what I had said until he responded.
"They are?" It wasn't exactly a question, because he knew they weren't, but it startled me awake.
"Oh no. They're not." And I tried to laugh. Then I looked up, and I know now that he could see what was happening inside me. He said he wanted to kiss me.

I was terrified, but I did not say no. I think I didn't say anything. We stepped into the garage, away from my mother's kitchen window, and kissed. It was quick.

And here's the truth. I didn't know how. I don't remember if he laughed. He probably didn't, but he could have.