The story starts with a golden ball gone rogue and a bargain ~ not exactly a great premise for a romance. “Kiss me,” the frog pleads. The princess tries to be polite, but disgust wins out over obligation. One minute he’s sitting in her hand and in the next, SMASH! He hits the wall, bounces twice and, instead of squashed amphibian parts, out pops a prince. Go figure.
Somewhere in that tale, there’s a lesson for little girls, everywhere. Right?
For the record, this scenario has never happened with any of my boyfriends. But then, I’ve never dashed any of them against the wall. Perhaps I should try it sometime? I don’t imagine the ensuing inquiries will be assuaged by my excuse of “But I thought you were bespelled!”
So much for that idea.
To be safe, I just stick to the kissing part. I paint my lips ruby-red, secure in the knowledge that sometimes magic happens. When he leans in close, I tremble in breathless anticipation, poised on the hopeful edge of imminent transformation, and then I cherish those sweet liminal moments when infinite possibilities and fairy tale endings sweep between our pressed-together mouths.
What happens after that is anyone’s guess…