Kiss
June 1977
Their first kiss was disastrous. Two sets of eyeglasses got in the way; hers were pushed against her nose, so she stepped back to adjust them. Mimicking the scenes she saw in movies, she turned her face sideways, but it was his nose this time, he had a large nose. Finally, it seemed like a century, he held her face in his palms and said:
“Don’t move.”
And then he pressed his lips on hers. Earlier that night, she had anticipated a first kiss to resume the unfinished ceremony, and he did kiss her, but she wasn’t woozy. The orchestra didn’t sway, the sky didn’t open, the doves didn’t spread their wings. On the contrary, she was edgy, panting, rigidly twisting her sweaty fingers, shivering a little. He sighed, pulled her to his chest, kissed her forehead and hair.
She arrived in America almost a year ago by then, studying for her master’s degree in statistics. He was working on his PhD in mathematics; red hair, pale, freckles on his nose and cheeks, a few strands of hair stuck out of his shirt collar. She’d read in Gulliver’s Travels that the red-haired are libidinous, mischievous, but he is self-restrained, kind, gentle.
May 1979
They were destined for travel, museum visits. He, an assistant professor, and she, an instructor, in the math department. After a small wedding at the Methodist church on their campus, his math conference took them to Vienna for his presentation, their opportune honeymoon. May in Vienna, misty rain, gentle sun, cool air, beautiful. After his twenty-five minute speech, they rushed to Belvedere. The Kiss by Gustav Klimt brimmed with gorgeous yellow, gold and black, magnetic. She stood in front of the painting, mesmerized, in a dream. The woman was kneeling on a patch of emerald green grass. Lavender pink, ocean blue Nicotiana quivered under her kneeling shin. Her slim figure held up a clear, calm, trusting face. Her eyes closed in gentle acceptance, tranquil enjoyment, like she had no doubt, no reserve; her toes warped, murmuring the secret of her elation. In the painting, the woman’s eyes closed, whispered:
“Yes, kiss me, take me, I am yours to keep.”
She was dressed in a birch yellow gown adorned with warm swirls of fiery red and summer green. Tucked in her brunette hair were small flowers of exuberant pure white and baby blue. The man, with his laurel crown, bent to kiss her cheek, his long fingers bracing her face steady. With his sunlight yellow cape, he shrouded over her.
Since she hadn’t moved, he came over to her from the other end of the hall; she extended her right hand to his left hand, cupped his hand in hers, and cuddled it firmly.
“Smell that pungent fragrance of Nicotiana,” she said.
He bought a small 5 x 8 print of The Kiss at the gift shop and gave it to her in the hotel room.
“Like it?”
“Yes, very much,” she said and looked at his grey eyes behind his spectacles.
He took her glasses off, cupped her chin in his palms and turned his face slightly so that his nose was not in the way. He softly brushed his lips on hers and then his tongue ran over her lips and touched her tongue inside. He was a red-haired, wayward boy on their honeymoon.
November 2019
A childless couple; a life of teaching, research and travel. Some nights, he read, retired in the study and didn’t come to share their bed. After his mother’s funeral, he sat and stared at the empty desk in solitude. His flaming red hair had turned grey, white patches on the curls, while her dark hair was black and shiny like raven’s feathers, with her Asian roots. Tall and lanky, he had grown into a large man at middle age. She, on the other hand, never graced by children, miniature, fine boned, slim. Paris for their fortieth anniversary. The first day a strike on the Paris transportation system paralyzed the city. They walked in the snow, window shopped in daylight, had wine by the fire at night. The second day, they took the train to the Rodin Museum. The sculpture The Kiss, entwined naked bodies, pure white. The innocence of the first kiss between Francesca and Paolo, the purity of their unadulterated, passionate love for each other; a defilement to human laws, castigated and punished to wander hell. They gazed at the the statue in a trance, awestruck.
“Like to buy a small statue to take home?” He touched her fingers, broke the silent air. Snow was falling outside.
“No, just to look at it is enough,” she said. Sizing down, need more time for tea and reverie.
Only a few snowflakes when they got on the train, moving along the Seine river. The train stopped mid-way, waiting for a thorough investigation on a suspicious package in the next station. Doors opened, passengers got out to catch a bus or taxi. Only one other elderly lady was left in their box. He checked his phone, looked at his watch, moved his hands in and out of his coat pockets, buttoned and unbuttoned his coat, crossed and uncrossed his legs.
She held his hands in hers to steady them, massaged his scalp and temples till he relaxed his shoulders and moaned. Then she pulled one of his arms around her shoulder, pressed her lips on his and leaned into him like the woman in The Kiss, muttered in his ear:
“If the next station had a bomb and we were going to be incinerated, there is no other position I would rather be in for people to find our burned carcasses.”
He startled her with a thunderous laughter:
“You funny little thing.”
