The Kiss

The Kiss

            Icouldn’t even say why, not now, not even all this time later.  There are small parts of memory, segments ifyou will, which attempt in some small part to explain the events of Julytenth.  Oh, but i shall not harp on thepoint, it happened.  There are no powersnorth or south to reverse these days.  Ican’t but feel the small time hour gods laughing. 

            Iam intent on telling you, trying to give you a reason for my action.  Can I tell you it was all for shits andgiggles?  I know, small excuse, littlereason.  What else can I say; I am asingle entity, wronged in spirit, ready to avenge my birth.

            Iknow I’ve lost you.  Let me start again,from the beginning.  Please, allow for mydigressions, I can’t see all of this in one piece.

            Shestood at the bus terminal downtown, wearing next to nothing.  I know her name, Celia or something of thatnature.  Her skirt showed it all, legs,bright and bare opened before me, shifting from one foot to the other.  When indeed would the bus arrive?

            Theheat burned, fire; the road hot through my shoes, all the while I watched her,eyes dark and rimmed with mascara.  Shegazed at me, casual, an empty look, full of nothing, still shifting her feetaimlessly in the sand.

            Iapproached her, not so much sure of what to say as aware of a need to be nearher.  A few steps further found me nextto her, close enough to see the small pear shaped bruise on her ankle, closeenough to smell her scent, at once strong and quiet sweet, a solid wave ofapricot and spring soap.  Details pressedinto my consciousness:  the peelingbench, green in places, the faded word ‘downtown’ missing the last ‘n’, and theconstant cracks in the cement, worn smooth by shoes and boots and sandals, likethe pair she wore, showing painted toes, smooth white skin painted red.

            Lookingat her, up from the red of her toenails, to those legs, still and foreversmooth shiny and sun tanned golden, which led neat and placid into a whitetennis skirt.  She demanded attention,without a word, which I gave to her, to the constant stillness of her navel,tight and tanned, which seemed to spin the hazy hot air around me, dulling andspinning star shapes into my vision.

            “Hello.”  I said, slowly, drugged on blonde curls andtanned skin, upon which the sun danced and danced as she moved, from one footto the other, a dance of sparkle and glitter delight.  She turned, her hazel empty eyesuncomprehending, looking upon me coldly, with no interest, not even ofcontempt.

            “Hi.”  She shrugged, her blonde ringlets shaking outher greeting as she spoke.

            Paralysisspread quickly over me, taking my tongue hostage, my very thoughts.  I saw but blonde and gold and lightrefracted.  All else faded:  the peeled paint, the sign announcing thedowntown bus, the potted palm plant next to the bench, gone, all save goldlocks and tight navel.

            Nowords or motion, just paralysis and waiting; for the bus, for her to speak, forher to move her painted foot, dragged haphazard over sand and gravel andcracked cement.  Utter silence rippedthrough the air, passing over me in shrill waves, the sound of bus approachingfailing to register until mine eyes spied the blue and white shell of metal,floating formless towards me.

            Buseased to a halt with squeal, her feet moving towards the curb.  My sense of balance failing as I follow herwith my eyes, I almost fell in an attempt to move.  I reached for change, an automatic reflexfrom years of riding bus, and mounted the steps after her, my eyes against herlegs, touching, caressing, and tasting the golden flesh.

            Boarding,change places, one dollar thirty five, continue on following tanned haze; lightshadow light shadow, a seat across from her- a perfect view.  She played motion with my mind, adjusting herhair, changing her lip color, brushing thin fingers over her legs, the motioncausing me disorientation.  What is theday?  What time zone am I in?  The time, the year, confused.

            “Areyou okay?”  She asked.  The very gods ask me ‘Are you?’

            Sweatingand stiff with fear, I nod accent, with flutter in my stomach, the knots ofmannequin desire pull strong.

            “Iam okay.”  I manage with a smile and wipesweat from my upper lip, trying to show control.  Do I control my basic functions, mybreathing?

            “Youlook pale.”  She says.  Her red tongue moved slowly over pink lips,torture of heaven.

            “Ifeel feverish.”  I say, sun plays tricks,light destroys thoughts.  I rememberbeing young and riding my bike in the summer heat, with sweat in my eyes.

            “Ihave aspirin.”  She says.  She looks concerned, a line upon her brow,heaven frowns!

            “I’llbe okay.”  I say.  I doubt it, knowing my mind is feverish, hotand agape, trying to keep pace with my desire.

            Pause.

            “Howfar are you going?”  She asked concernstill visible, one furrowed line upon her forehead.

            “Ido not know.” I answer, slow, careful with each word.  Am I correct? Am I making sense?

            Shelooks upon me still, her eyes narrowed and filled with concern.

            “Youare making me wonder.  You seem ill.”

            Idoubt my sense of hearing.  She did notsay those words.  I am imagining, makingbelieve.  She is not talking to me.  Am I indeed on bus?  How would I know the difference betweenreality and dream?  I feel bus under me;lumps, bumps, crevice of road beneath, the blink blur of words on street signsand billboards, advertising places I’ve yet to visit, products of which I knownothing. 

            Tothe dentist, to fix bad teeth, perhaps? To the bank, to see about checks bounced and negative balances.  Or simply, following a nameless she, aconstant sure beauty in a white tennis skirt? I can’t say, I shall not guess. If pressed I say ‘to the coffee shop’.

            “Whatis your name?”  She asks.  She smiles and for a moment I forget mynerves, my fever, name and smile back at her as though I didn’t hear her speak,as if she hadn’t asked me a question. Her face is close, close enough to see the lines in her makeup, thetexture of the powder on her cheeks, close enough to...

            “JacqueCousteau.”  I answer.  I give her a smile, secret memories in myeyes.

            “Niceto meet you, Mr. Cousteau.”  She says,laughing, her teeth showing white and shiny behind pink lips.  “I’m Kate.”

            Herlaugh contains a rainbow and I hear hidden mirth, devilment, the great mantrap, as her eyes search mine, inviting me, leading the way down, down,down.  The world slows and her lips moveslowly, silvery in half time.  The wordsflow unheard over me, but I feel rather than hear.  She takes me down.

            Isee her walking in front of me on a sidewalk, which leads to a set of stairs;darkness surrounds, the way downward hidden in the blackness.  I see the light gold of her skin shiningagainst the opaque steps, from which I feel heat, throbs and waves ofheat.  I follow one step, two steps, theheat growing, becoming oppressive.  Threesteps, four steps, I see an archway hover over black void, an empty space,which she leads me towards, the heat searing my skin, my eyes, my thoughts.

            “Cometo me.”  She says, standing on the edgeof the void, sheer black behind her, hand outstretched, welcoming, inviting, andher cream colored fingers cool to my burning touch.

            Ifocus my eyes, with effort, and the blink blur of bus motion is once againvisible through blonde curls.  I movecloser, apricots filling my senses, my arms moving of their own volition.  My hands grip the soft velvet of her cheeks.  I pull her close, close.  My lips touch hers, without struggle, warmwet and full against mine.  I kiss andkiss and kiss her, pulling her closer, closer, feeling her tongue inside mymouth, hot breath exhaled.  I feel herlip and I bite, hard and vicious, savage blood trickles down her chin as shepushes me away with both hands.

            Ilaugh, tripping my way forward.  The busscreeches halt and I exit, tripping and laughing, the warm taste of blood freshon my lips.