A Kiss

What about that time a passenger 
kissed me
on the cheek? 
One hand cupping my face,
the other on my shoulder,
as if we were friends;
as if we were friends who
perhaps
had not met for some time
and were accustomed to greeting each other
this way.

“But it was on the cheek,
right?
That would’ve been bad if 
he’d kissed you on the lips.
Then it would have been 
offensive.”
“He was just joking around.”

You laugh
with your friends
as you take your seat. 
I waited for you to sit
before I continued driving,
so you wouldn’t fall.
Redness
tints my cheeks,
my nose,
my ears,
while you find humor in my expression
and my shock,
at my disgust,
at my inability to place into words
what exactly it feels like to be
kissed
on the cheek
by someone 
who you don’t know,
who you don’t want to kiss you,
who’s having a laugh at you.

Good thing it wasn’t 
offensive.
Good thing it wasn’t 
degrading. 
Better to not make a big deal out of it.
Better to keep driving, driving, driving.