KISSED HIM TODAY.

A BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON/

It was she, Buruch
remembered, it was

Shlomit, who during
a nature study class


at school, had raised
a hand to be excused

to go to the loo (other
kids would have said

the lavatory or toilet
depending on their

breeding or class),
but the teacher, Miss

Ashdown, said, no
you should have gone

before. A few minutes
later, Buruch recalled,

she peed on her chair
and floor and a boy

nearby the scene said,
Shlomit's weed herself

Miss. There was a sea
of sounds around and

the teacher frowned
and with beady stare

told her to get out of
there, and told another

girl to go with her to
the nurse to wash and

change (nothing worse)
and sobbing left the room.

Yes, it had been she,
Buruch remembered,

and she hadn't returned
anymore that afternoon.

Gone home, he now
suspected, in borrowed

underwear, her others
washed through by nurse

who said, that will have
to do; and home to her

parents, mother's chide
and father's hand or belt

(who firmly with either dealt).
But to day, after lunch

in the upstairs hall, he'd
gone with her to Bedlam

Park, and showed her
his killer brown conker

on threaded string, a
three penny piece his

grandfather gave, and
she showed him the new

handkerchief her mother
bought her, flowered

with red border. And
she'd kissed him shyly

on the cheek and he
smiled and looked to

the ground, hoping none
of the boys were around.

Yes, it had been Shlomit
who had wet herself

and chair and floor and
been sent away, but she

was dry now and had
kissed his cheek today.