Boy at bus stop, (17), smiles away at the pretty girl, (16), in silver retro-refit Go-Go’s and flaming red mini, long brown hair matched to big brown eyes, pituitary gland murmurs PERFECT. But all goes array when smile is rejected. Surely he brushed his teeth this morning didn’t he?
*****
Girl stares and goes defensive, first-love instinct survival mode, he’s cute, cute at least from the spiky blond hair down to the deep set blue sparklers, but beyond, “Oh my, are those a set of teeth or lemon rinds?”
*****
A setback, a quick clamping of the jaw to hide the offending chompers. What now? A word to recover, or even a phrase, but how? How to utter the next line of his hormonal poem without opening one’s mouth? Then a flash. IDEA! One quick word with mouth barely open,
“Hi”
*****
Oh dear, Cuteness returns with a vengeance. Calculations, Considerations, a small connection attempted, Reconsider, Blue Sparklers Revisited Briefly, Nanoseconds. How to return salutations coyly, but not too coyly, and a little coldly, BUT NOT TOO COLDLY!!! Time to encourage cautiously and begin building barriers.
“Hi.”
*****
Male triggers and mechanisms tripped, she bit, (Didn’t she?) one word returned and now how to keep the dialog rolling? He, feeling over-confident, play the cool card, draws Mr. Marlboro and in offer the one-word romantic says,
“Smoke?”
*****
And again Oh dear, alarms ringing, this time mother and father’s, warnings of bad girls smoking on street corners wearing retro fit Go-Go’s and flaming minis, or scratch that, oh well, anyway, bad girls and bad boys at bad bus stops lead to bad things, right? (BUT) Mommy and Daddy pushed aside, (an opening, new opportunities) A junkie Prince Charming bearing rusty old Reeboks instead of glass slippers. Brothel Madam as Fairy God Mother. A chance to slip the parental noose and spin mommy and daddy’s heads out of the 50's.
“I don’t smoke,” (a rejection) “What’s your name?” (an invitation)
*****
Cigarette goes away, two words so far, one more to go and he’s in, now only to find the answer,
“Rocky,” he says.
*****
And so they launch into the limbic system limbo, lean forward lips poised to seal the teenage fever, seconds click as they move closer, Mommy and Daddy’s padded little world so close to crumbling, but then, Uh Oh, “FATE” intervenes, long brown hair, big brown eyes, retro refit Go-Goes, and flaming red mini pull back. A number comes towards them, 405.
“That’s my bus, gotta go, nice to meet you though.”
*****
And so, the one-word romantic struck down gives a defeated wave and an almost tear, until into the corner of his big blue sparklers a foxy brunette in Leopard print pants did appear.
