First love

First loves are special.



The first time your eyes sparkle on hearing his name.
The first time you’d run to pick up the telephone before your parents could get it.
The first time you dressed carefully hoping he would notice.
The first time the joy of a secret was in not sharing. Or maybe sharing with a few friends. Very few.
The first time you pushed aside that feeling of maybe-it-is-wrong.
The first time you wondered how it would be to kiss and blushed at the thought.
The first time you sat in front of a paper and tried to write as prettily as possible. Love stories meant more than they ever did…

Yes, first loves are special.

It was their first love. Both of them, who’d tell me almost everything, didn’t tell me this. That’s when I realized it must be.

I sat in the car watching both of them talk. Or made deliberate attempts not to talk to each other. I was given way too much attention.

She was tired, she said after sometime. Removing her glasses, she handed it over to him, “That’s my life. Be careful.”

Teenagers and their need for drama, I thought sleepily.

I saw him look for a space to put her glasses. Nothing deemed fit a place to lay them, for I saw him look around and score off the numerous possibilities.

I saw him even look at the place near the dashboard where my poor glasses moved left and right, as my crazy driver veered. Oh, they weren’t my life anyway!

She was a quick sleeper. And after making sure she was, I saw him place her glasses carefully into the pocket of his shirt.

Oh, of course I was asleep. I didn’t see a thing. I wouldn’t say a word.