I kissed the other Mark. More like he kissed me, but I let him and I guess I kissed him back. It was weird — different than kissing my Mark — but kind of okay. It was the night before we left to drive home. We met again by the fountain in the square and hung out until I had to go back to the hotel. I wanted to stay longer, but I knew my mom would come looking for me if I was late and if that happened I would die.
Now that I’m home, back in the little room I can’t stop thinking about that kiss and the other Mark even though every time I do it makes me wince. I thought I’d just forget about it but I can’t and I can’t tell anyone, not even Laurie — and certainly not Mark, my Mark that is. I turn the music up in hopes it will drown out everything that’s going on in my brain and somehow wipe away the guilt. I’m tuned into the Top 40 station. I find that usually does the best job if I’m trying to shake an awful feeling. They’re playing Cher, which is not great, but not the worst either.
I am a horrible person. I know Mark — my Mark — and I said (well, he said) we shouldn’t put a label on our relationship, that we don’t have to be boyfriend-girlfriend, but still. He didn’t mean I should go around kissing other guys. Did he?
Image: Cher photographed for Blackglama, Vogue, November 1986.
Welcome to the Little Room is a series of 250-word re-imagined vignettes from my ’80s youth with a focus on music and style. It appears weekly on periodicult.com.