She sat next to me in the backseat. My first date. Mom was driving the car, I was thirteen years old. We were going to a movie.
Such an odd way to begin a love life. Mom in the front seat with her eyes in the rearview mirror. I’m trying to talk without seeming nervous, the girl’s a little preoccupied looking out the window. God, hurry up and get to the movie so we can make out.
The movie was probably a good one. We didn’t watch it much. Hands, lips, tongue, fingers, legs, whispering—these were the things we went to the movies for. Afterward we walked outside the cinema holding hands and having a great time.
Then Mom drove up to take us home. We dropped off my date, then the questions began.
“How did it go?” Mom asked.
“Fine,” I said. “The movie was really good.”
“She’s a nice girl. I like her a lot. You should ask her over for dinner some night.” Mom was always asking people to dinner.
“We’ll see,” I said while looking out the window. Being young was such a pain in the ass.