Sheila Needs, 6 (and three quarters) years old
In my six year old way, I fell in love with him immediately, so of course I was trying to attack him.
“How old are you?” I said.
“Six and a half,”
“I’m six and three quarters,” I boasted, swinging as high as I could.
“Oh yeah? Bet you can’t do this.”
And with that, he leaped from the swing just as it had reached its highest arc, landing on his knees in the dirt. His perfect knees were bloody. I could hide my feelings no longer, I was terrified.
I sprinted to our house, snatching Band-Aids and mercurochrome from the bathroom. When I arrived back on the scene, my brave stunt man refused my help. It turned out his highness had an aversion to anything medical. I must have chased him around the house three times before we both got tired and went in to watch Disney’s Robin Hood.
Behind the couch, he knelt on his knees facing me and began to move in. His lips were wet, sticky and not puckered. He simply pressed them on mine and held there for a few seconds. I could taste grass, dirt and popsicle. Did my man eat dirt? It didn’t matter now. I loved all four seconds of it.
“Will you be my wife?” he asked. Suddenly, my six year old love affairs flashed before me. There was Brice my kindergarten accomplice, Stuart, across the street, and Ray, 5 years my senior, a brilliant artist.
“Oh -------,” I sighed, and then we fell to kissing again. This time I felt his tongue in my mouth. I promptly offered critique.
“Ew. I don’t think your doing it right,”
“That’s how grown ups do it,”
After that night, I never saw him again.