I only just slapped him.  Not that hard, really.  I had done it a thousand times before, so by then it was no big deal.  

But that night by happenstance, as my palm met his face, my fingers clipped one side of his glasses, and they went flying.  They sailed through the air and skittered to a stop several feet away.  

For a few agonizing seconds, I only managed to stare speechlessly at them, lying there on the thick shellacked wooden floor like nothing was amiss, like they'd been carefully set down that way on a dresser or a desk.

I glanced up again and back to him.  Between his wide, shocked eyes a tiny speck of blood marked where metal frames had scratched the bridge of his nose.   

Someone in the back of the theater let out a long, low gasp.  Off to the left, a group of boys snickered.

My legs felt unsteady.  My hands  shook.  But somehow, I found my voice again. 

I yelled at him.  He kissed me.  We danced a long slow dance.   And by the time the curtain fell, all had been forgiven.