The moon hung high and shed its glow across my yard, covering the night in soft shades of light. My sister, Barbara, and I sat outside my camper trailer where I’ve been living for the past few months because life has knocked me around pretty hard over the years. 

Barbara, wrapped up in a black raincoat, sat in silence while she smoked a cigarette, the end glowing red in the semi-darkness as she took a drag of it. 

I rubbed my dog, Buddy’s, ears until he rolled over and grunted in sheer contentment, and then I pulled the hem of my T-shirt over my knees to cut the chill from my bare legs. 

My sister and I were enjoying a calm, beautiful night, content to sit in silence, if that’s all we decided to do. Sisters are comfortable that way.

Her soft voice floated over the semi-darkness to me. “I remember the first boy who ever held my hand,” she said.

I looked over at her and grinned. “Who was it?”

“Dwight. We were at a movie, and he kept inching his hand toward mine until he suddenly grabbed it. I remember the butterflies in the pit of my stomach and the giddy feelings.” She smiled, lost in a happy moment.

“Whatever happened to him?” I asked.

“He’s been in jail for the past few years for almost beating his wife to death.”

Whoa, I thought, and then remembered the first guy who kissed me. His name was Greg, and he walked into the classroom, before the rest of the students arrived, put his hands on either side of my face, and kissed me long and deeply, his lips soft and tongue gently probing. Then he was gone, leaving me shaking and breathless. I never saw him again after that day. But I remember that kiss, and it still has the power to make my heart flutter. It would be a long time before I found a guy who could beat that kiss.

“Do you remember Greg?” I asked.

“Yeah. He was the one who had curly blonde hair, wasn’t he? Where is he now?”

“In the state penitentiary -- not sure why. Though I suspect it had something to do with drugs, because he was always borrowing my roach-clip hair ornament, with the pink feathers attached, to smoke him one during PE.”

Barbara laughed and took another puff off her cigarette. “Ain’t it funny how people’s lives turn out?”

“Makes me think of Chuck. Remember him?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. He was cute, played football and dated Melinda, one of the prettiest girls in town, on and off throughout high school.”

“Well, he spent time in jail for making obscene phone calls.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, my God! Are you serious? I would have never expected that in a million years!”

“Yep. I think he made over one-hundred calls to the women around here, before he was caught.”

Barbara laughed again. “That’s just too funny.”

A cool breeze lifted my hair and caressed my bare limbs, causing me to shiver and rub my goose-pimpled arms. Buddy grunted and rolled over, baring his belly for another good rubbing.

“Do you remember Jimmy?” Barbara asked.

“Sure do.”

“I always liked him. When he was with me he was a good boy, but when he hung out with the wrong crowd, he was a very bad boy. I talked to his sister down at the store a while back. He’s serving a life sentence behind bars.”

My mouth dropped opened. “What on earth did he do?”

“I didn’t ask -- wish I had, but how many things do you get life for?”

An ominous silence fell over our conversation. Neither of us could think of anything outside of murder.

The katydids sang, another dog barked down the road, and Buddy rose up and growled, giving a half-hearted bark before settling back at my feet. A nighthawk flew past the moon, casting its shadow across the yard.

Barbara turned to me and blew smoke out the corner of her mouth. “Who was the guy who rode a motorcycle that asked you out?”

I frowned. “I don’t remember a guy like that.”

“Yes, you do. When you worked at the daycare, he worked next door to you at the drugstore and rode a motorcycle. And he had an on-again-off-again relationship with some girl.”

“Oh! You mean Sandy. Shoot, I’d completely forgotten he existed, “ I said. “Mom and Dad went ballistic when he asked me out, and to this day I still don’t understand why. I mean, I was sixteen, and they said I could date at that age. Unless they thought he was one of the fathers who 
came to pick up their children.”

“It was because he rode a motorcycle,” my sister said matter-of-factly.

“Naw, that couldn’t have been it. How did they even know he rode a motorcycle?”

“Daddy and I were talking about it not long ago, and he said he just couldn’t let you go out on date with a guy on a motorcycle.” Barbara dropped the cigarette butt and ground it out under the toe of her shoe. “Now that I have a daughter that age, I can see his point. I wouldn’t want her going out on a date with a guy on a motorcycle, either.”

I laughed and said in a strict parent’s tone of voice, “Go and bring back a car and maybe I’ll let you take my daughter out.”

She laughed with me. “That’s right!”

“I wonder where he is tonight.”

“Probably in jail with the rest of our ex-guys.”

I relaxed against the side of the trailer, rolled my head from side to side, and smiled. “Gee, you and I have paid our dues in the frog trenches, haven’t we?”

“Yeah, but I think my frog kissing days are over.” She grinned mysteriously as her cell-phone rang, and she pulled it out of her pocket to answer it. The guy on the other end said something I couldn’t understand, but it made her blush and giggle.

She stood and said, “I’m going to go talk to my hubby now.” Then gave me a wink as she headed toward her own trailer, phone to her ear, and a spring in her step as she talked to the man she’s been married to for the past ten years. Though their road is rocky right now, they have the heart to work it out.

I smiled and sat outside a little longer and thought of my own guy who is away serving in the military. Greg’s kiss may have been memorable, but the memory of David’s kiss wakes me up in the wee hours of the morning with a craving for it that just won’t go away. I ache for his kisses. David’s kisses are stuff legends are made of and women swoon at the very thought of his lips touching  theirs. Ah, but his kisses belong to me now.

Okay, maybe you think I need to wake up. But why? Since David came along, I haven’t had to kiss a frog in a long, long time. And he dang sure hasn't spent any time in jail.

Author's Biography

Margaret Marr lives in the mountains of western North Carolina where she writes paranormal novels with romantic elements. 

Her fourth book, "The Ghosts of Daemon Yarborough", is scheduled for publication later this year at NovelBooks, Inc. Visit Margaret Online at www.margaretmarr.com 

E-mail Margaret.

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