I stood there and watched - frozen in my tracks, wondering "am I seeing what I'm seeing?" Had I walked in on a private moment that was for their eyes only? Was I intruding? Should I have left?
Yes, I had - but I didn't.
No, this wasn't meant for me to see. I was becoming a man of the world, living in two cities at the same time. Surely this gave me a broader perspective than most. It's not as if I was some sort of six year old...
I was seven, and a fine judge of what was and wasn't my business. This was clearly none of my business, yet I stood there and I watched - silently - not wanting to disturb.
As any seven year old boy can tell you, girls are icky, and boys touching girls is even icky-er. It's way icky. Beyond icky. It's just plain gross - and I knew it.
I KNEW IT.
But somehow, this wasn't gross. "Why isn't this gross?" I didn't understand what I was seeing, so I continued watching, hoping not to disturb them.
Her cheeks were red. I'd never seen my stepmother's cheeks so red. And her eyes... "Why is she looking at him like that? What is that look? She's not sad, but why would she look like that if she's happy? She gad a tear in her eye... but she looks happy?" It made no sense.
My father was holding her right hand with his left, while his right was behind her back. Her left hand was on his shoulder.
They were dancing - in the kitchen - and I could tell they were in love.
And I KNEW it.