I was 13, and I was wearing his Huey Lewis the News tee, cropped jeans, white Keds, and a red bandana tied around my neck. We drove around in his car for a while, Berlin’s Pleasure Victim cranked on the stereo. (Despite the obvious sexuality of the “Sex…I’m A” lyrics, nothing about this night was about sex. It was about romance.)
He stopped the car, we got out to look at the stars — and in one, magical movement, he swept me off my feet, sat me on top of the hood, and leaned in to kiss me. It seemed like it lasted forever. It was a perfect movie moment with someone special, and one of the last (and only) times I’d be with a boy who didn’t immediately push me for more.
Just a kiss. A really beautiful, unforgettable kiss.
If I knew where he was now, I’d thank him for that.
Thank you, Terry. For one of the only nice teenage memories I have. Thank you.