Jersey, 2003

The walk to Frank’s apartment was short, about a five-minute walk through the gross Jersey streets and another 5-minute climb up the stairs to his apartment. Frank had mentioned something about kids breaking the doors and climbing out between floors. You could only laugh at it.   When you finally make it into his apartment, you nearly tripped over the small heap of shoes on the doormat, and took this as a queue to kick off your own sneakers.

“Do you seriously not bring anyone home?” You titled your head, walking over and leaning against the couch as Frank watched you. He shrugged and shook his head like it wasn’t a big deal.   “A few times. Mikey gets the girls usually.” He chuckled, walking over to you. You could tell he was trying his hardest not to look too needy. You didn’t have the heart to tell him that he looked exactly the opposite of what he was trying to convey.

He stared at you for a second, mustering up the courage to try and kiss you. One of his many good qualities was kissing, anyways.