“Of course I am reckless. As far as I know I have never had an ounce of reck in my entire body.” -Brad
A Week of Kisses
In college I was poor as most college students are, so when there were times I wanted a snack the cheapest thing I could buy in the canteen were the long strips of red licorice called Twizzlers. I always liked red Twizzlers as many people do, including, it seems, you. There are black Twizzlers but I never buy them. Looking back at it now maybe I should have, because no one asks you to share your black licorice. They will always ask you to share the red.
That is what you did on that warm Spring day. “Brad, give me some of your red Twizzler.” you asked in a commanding kind of way. There was nothing wrong with this, after all, I was taught to share while growing up. I was simply sharing my licorice, in the middle of the afternoon, in broad daylight, outside the school, in the middle of half a dozen people, standing next to your boyfriend, who was facing away engaged in a heated debate, probably about hockey.
That was when, in my moment of recklessness, with one end of the Twizzler in my mouth, I offered you the other end and said help yourself. You took the end and bit it off. I was happy to share and hoped you enjoyed it.
But then you took a second bite followed quickly by a third and fourth. That was when I realized you were stealing my Twizzler. I was not having that! I was not made of money! Twizzlers didn’t grow on trees! No one steals my licorice! I figured the best way to keep you from eating all my licorice was for me to eat it all first so I started biting fast. It became a race for the centre. I chomped faster in your direction while your bites sped up towards me. I was determined not to surrender my licorice. We both reached the middle at the same time and our lips lightly brushed against each other. With no licorice remaining between us, for just a twinkling, our lips seemed to linger there. We parted and you had a smile on your face and a mischievous look in your eye that makes me question to this day if you truly did like red licorice all that much.
“Ohhhhhhhhh! I am telling your boyfriend!” said the girl standing beside us. Her eyes were as wide as dinner plates after watching our rendition of “Lady and the Tramp”.
You laughed as your boyfriend turned to face me, with a slightly puzzled, yet very serious look on his face. Without a word he arched an eyebrow at me making him seem even more menacing then he already looked. I held my palms out and shrugged. With my mouth full of partly-chewed red Twizzler I spouted, “She tried to steal my licorice!” Accidentally spitting some of my partly-chewed candy on his shoulder as I sputtered. Behind me, you laughed again. He sighed, shook his head, probably wondering if I would ever grow up, flicked the licorice splatter off his shoulder and turned back to his hockey debate.
I realized it was a very reckless thing I did that day and to make sure it never happens again, I now eat my red licorice, locked in my room, alone. Black licorice I’ll still eat in public.