I was seven. He was nine. I ran from him on the playground.
He caught up. “You can kiss me if you want,” he said breathlessly.
I took off.
Nine years later, I stopped running.
Two years after, he slipped his hands in mine as we said our vows. I whispered, “You can kiss me if you want.”
Thirty years later, on the road to happily ever after, he made a wrong turn.
I thought it was a dead-end.
“Just a detour,” he said, leaning in for a kiss.
It tasted different, somehow…bittersweet, but potent.
He was right.