Joelene

But he really wanted us

to watch a movie.

Because here we were,

watching a comedic show

that was making us laugh.

'Tis was coloured,

and haven't been aired before

on our two-channel Tv.

And let me tell you,

the man could laugh.

Eric kept on laughing

and laughing

and laughing.

But then when all the joke

died down, and I started yawning

and stretching

and my frock rid up.

Eric paused the movie,

placed the phone on the

army-green bedsheets,

and asked: "tired?"

"A little," I said.

Then he tilted his head.

A lock of brown hair

fell in his eyes.

And I felt like...boy,

was I looking at

Leonardo DiCaprio.

Not Leonardo DiCaprio

in Shutter Island.

I meant the Leonardo DiCaprio

in Titanic.

Eric then asked

with a heavy hint

of curiosity in his voice:

"How old are you,

Joelene?"

And I told him.

He tensed slightly.

Like a robot.

And I panicked.

I should have lied.

I should have lied.

I should have lied.

But quickly, his forehead

smoothed out again,

in the pale moonlight

streaming through

our boarded-up window.

Manure and wet grass from the barn

was strong in the room.

But Eric had smelled like

fresh laundry and Sunday mornings.

Here what now,

I had to make up for my age.

"What?" I crossed my arms.

"Why'd you ask?"

Eric chuckled

and ruffled my hair,

"Nothing, squirt."

I huffed, "don't call me that."

"Why...squirt?" He teased.

He was annoying

and cute

all at the same time.

And I didn't know

if I wanted to smile

or frown at all.

I did both.

Then Eric, taking his teasing too far,

brought his face to mine.

I could see his faint beard and

smell cigarette on his breath.

Cigarette. Weed. Hot.

"Ever been kissed, Squirt?"

And before he waited

for what I had to say,

Eric was leaning in

and placing his cold

rough lips on top of mine.