250 word memoir

“If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction.
But there is always the chance that such a book
of fiction may throw some light on what
has been written as fact.”
–Ernest Hemingway, Moveable Feast

I was young and unafraid then, but that didn’t make me any less nervous when I invited her on a date. Her flat-capped silver hair had enamored me and she was the prize one had to go get in our little circle of friends. Paula was her name.

“There’s this party at my school on Friday…” I asked her one sunny day when sitting on the steps of her fake marble Doric-column porch.

“… And I’m going,” she said.

I should have known she would answer like that. I mean, of course. She already knew at 14 she wanted to become a professional go-cart racer and she was well on her way to becoming one. Who would have ever thought she didn’t know what she wanted?

We finally met at the gym in my school: a building too big for a 14-year old party. Boys could still be seen discussing among themselves which girl to ask out, while the girls, presuming complete indifference, were sitting down on their chit chatty chairs. It was a complete flop

But on that night, when dust still sparked in the sky, I wanted to kiss her.

Our hands silently locked while we walked towards the swings, away from the enchanting Caribbean rhythms (floating on the warm breeze) that were caressing her bare ankles.

“Will this be my first kiss?” I thought. I was hoping she was thinking the same.

She was, as she told me years later. But we never did.