Friday late afternoon, I headed back to the little village where my four girlfriends and I grew up. It was Port Dagen — yes, after the drink — and the whole place had dressed for the occasion. Some in the old farmer-and-fisher outfits from way back when, caps tilted, aprons tied, clogs clicking on the cobblestones. Others in whatever felt festive, the port (and every other drink going) flowing freely. The big square shimmered in the late sun, music spilling from the band, water glinting at the edge of the village.

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I know almost everyone here — it’s where I grew up — and it always feels like slipping into a favourite jumper: warm, familiar, forgiving. Even if you don’t see each other often, the smiles are genuine, the hugs are real, and suddenly you’re home again.

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Julia looked gorgeous and was glowing. She always is. And as usual, she was surrounded by more admirers than glasses of port — though, let’s be fair, the numbers were running close. The rest of the girls couldn’t make it (holidays, excuses, life), so it was just the two of us, catching up and laughing our way through the night.

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I had promised myself to behave. No port…far too strong for me, just a small beer or two. Naturally, that became four. Which was precisely the point when Mark appeared.

Now, Mark isn’t new. I know him from the pub Julia and I sneak into on Fridays after work — our little ritual. He’s tall, blond (the very Dutch kind of blond), attractive, and the sort of man who makes flirting feel like a hobby you never want to quit. Harmless, yes. Fun, absolutely. The kind of back-and-forth that makes the last sip of wine taste better.

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So when he showed up in the square, it felt natural. Within minutes we’d slipped into our usual rhythm — the easy jokes, the teasing, that spark that always seems to hover between us without effort. Julia, meanwhile, was far too busy juggling her own admirers to notice much, though I’m fairly sure she caught my grin and gave me that knowing smile of hers.

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And then — blame the band, blame the beers, blame Julia’s parade of admirers — whatever it was, Mark and I ended up drifting away from the crowd. One minute we were still trading lines, the next we were on that bench.

We sat down, close enough to pretend it was accidental. It wasn’t. He said something mildly clever, I laughed louder than necessary, and suddenly we were both aware that this had stopped being about the band or the beers. There was a pause — the kind where you briefly assess your life choices — and then he leaned in. I could have moved away. I didn’t. Apparently, four beers is my decision-making threshold.

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The kiss? Well, let’s just say it was really good. Maybe it was the four beers talking, but I’m not about to argue with myself. It was playful, warm, a little daring — exactly what I didn’t know I needed. Not the kiss you carve into memory with violins swelling in the background, but the kind that makes you grin like a fool all the way home. It didn’t whisper promises — it winked at possibilities. It said, “You’re still in the game, darling. Don’t you forget it.”

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And later, back home with Alfie (who had wisely skipped the chaos and was more interested in bacon than kisses), I had my afterthought. Maybe that’s the whole point. Not every kiss is a prologue to a love story. Some are just punctuation marks — cheeky commas in the middle of an otherwise ordinary week.

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But I’ll admit: it felt powerful. To know I still have it. That the spark is alive, cheeky, and utterly mine — whether or not Mark is my man (he isn’t and never will be). Still, what a delicious reminder. That a single kiss on a wooden bench in a tiny village can make you stand taller, walk lighter, and laugh at yourself all the way home.

And that kiss? That kiss was pure sass.

 

Because sometimes sass tastes better than port------or in my case , four beers and a kiss

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