I told her that her lips tasted delightful. She replied with a chuckled and said that the other guy had just eaten a cherry Popsicle.
She thought she was a West Coast girl accidentally born on the East Coast until she visited a friend in California. Listening to the girls there talk about making out with each other the night before—since they’d gotten bored at the party where no interesting boys could be found—she realized she was, in fact, fully an East Coast girl.
As we huddled next to the fire, our huddling turned to closeness which turned to kissing which turned to extreme kissing which turned into a night of passion.
I confess I brought on that ice-age so you’d huddle with me.