first kiss

My first kiss came from a boy named Valentin. He was standing in line behind me as we waited for our turn to drink from the water fountain beside the school canteen. I had just come from a game of Chinese-garter with my friends and could only think of that first cold mouthful of water going down my parched throat. As I bent down to drink, I felt something soft and dry brushing swiftly against my cheek. Like dried leaves. I didn’t even know what had happened, and it was only when the other people in line started puckering their lips and making kissing motions that I realized Valentin had kissed me. He was just standing at one side with a goofy grin on his face. And then—was it embarrassment? surprise? fear?—whatever it was, it made me grab an empty bottle from one of the soft drink crates and chase him around the school playground with it. Thankfully, I never caught him. I wouldn’t have known what to do if I did. Would I have hit him on the head? Would I have cried? I still don’t know up to now.