FIRST KISS

Growing up in Montreal, Quebec, was an interesting time during the late '60s, early '70s.  One of my very first boyfriends, Cyprian Phillip Theo...., is an army cadet and at 14 (and a half) years old, I find this sooooooo exciting.  Short and stocky, his swarthy complexion and full lips attest to his Greek heritage.  He is also captain of the football team at the high school we both go to and for which I am a cheerleader.  We hang out together with a bunch of our friends, mostly fellow cheerleaders and his buddies from the squad.   

One chilly spring evening we head out on an actual date.  He has planned our evening very carefully and won't reveal where we’re going. Not knowing that makes it hard to decide what to wear and I agonize over what would be appropriate.  I try on eight or nine different outfits and combinations of them and finally decide to dress up a bit but wore flats so that I wouldn't tower over Cyprian, since we are exactly the same height in bare feet.

Taking a few buses and then the metro (subway) to our destination keeps the secret until we get off the train at Place Ville Marie, a subterranean shopping Mecca of downtown Montreal.  Harsh winters in Montreal have created this underground world and we wander through the concourses, holding hands (his is kinda sweaty) window shopping, idly talking about our school's spring carnival, which had been held a few weeks before.

After an hour or so, Cyprian leads me over to a bank of elevators and presses the up button.  I’m curious about what was up but he doesn't give anything away.  The car doors slowly slide open and Cyprian presents a couple of tickets to the uniformed attendant, who’s standing by the controls.  I am intrigued.  Why do we need tickets to ride the elevator?   Something was up, literally.  The elevator doors whoosh closed and our ascent starts with a jerk. 

Keeping an eye on the car attendant, Cyprian nudges me to the back of the car, behind the uniformed attendant.  The edge of a small, 3-legged stool tucked into the corner hits the back of my legs and I’m kinda leaning backwards a bit.  Awkwardly, I shift over to the right, so I don’t end up sitting down.  That would put my head at a level on Cyprian which would be REALLY embarrassing! 

Once I’m up against the wall, Cyprian puts his hand up beside my head and leans in.  My heart is thumping a mile a minute and I can feel Cyprian's warm breath on my cheek.  Expecting to feel his hot lips press against mine, I’m really surprised when, instead, he whispers in my ear, “Can I kiss you?”  Man, talk about killing the mood!  I duck under his outstretched arm and scoot to the attendant’s side.  I can tell Cyprian is surprised by my actions but at that moment, I don't care.   

Finally, the elevator lurches to a stop and we step out onto a rooftop terrace.  A light mist blurs the panoramic view of the vast city centre and reminds me of Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds in the oh so romantic movie, Singing in the Rain, my fave.  We are at the top of Place Ville Marie, the tallest office tower in Montreal.  We wander over to the chest-high parapet and lean against it.  Cyprian is clearly discombobulated by my refusal to kiss him and keeps asking, “Why won’t you kiss me?”  His tone is so plaintive I almost capitulate and kiss him but don’t.  Then he implies I “owe” him because of all he has done to woo me.  How rude!  Well, he really has put the nail in this date with that comment.  I don't answer and just suggest we head back to the warmth and dry.

Cyprian sulkily leads the way back to the metro and we catch the last train of the night.  All the way home, he keeps asking why I won’t kiss him, his questions punctuated by the clickity-clack of the subway car wheels.  Every time he asks, I feel less inclined to answer.  After exiting the subway, we find that we have missed the last bus, which would have taken us over the river into Chomedey and that makes the trip home even longer, since Cyprian refuses to call a taxi and insists we walk.  I'm really glad I'm not wearing high heels.  He, of course, as an officer and a  gentleman, will escort me right to my front door.  By now, I have gone past my midnight curfew and know that my mother will be waiting for me at the front door, with blood in her eye and mayhem in her heart.  Curfew is not something treated lightly in our house.

After a mostly silent trek home (Cyprian finally gives up asking me about why I won’t kiss him and doesn't have much of anything else to say, thank goodness) and we finally arrive around 1:30 a.m.  Knowing that my mother is watching and waiting to pounce on me, I run full-tilt up the steps, house key at the ready and, just as I’m about to open the door, I blow Cyprian a loud, smacking kiss then disappear inside.  He shouts something I can't hear, turns sharply on his heels, and strides away.

The next few months at school are really tricky, as I am determined to stay as far away from Cyprian as I can.  It is especially disconcerting, since as a cheerleader, I have to be at all his football games, rah rahhing the team to victory. Thankfully, Cyprian graduates at the end of the year and I’m free to walk the halls of my high school without having to worry about bumping into him ever again.

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercover Sandycove-r - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”