Peppermint Kisses

“Whenever he went to see her, he always stopped along the way at a certain candy store in his neighborhood to buy one white and red tin of Altoids, those ‘curiously strong’ British peppermints. They were her favorite candy and hard to find in the city. She popped them into her mouth two at a time, despite their being strong enough to burn the bristles off a warthog. She was so sophisticated and poised in most ways, yet when it came to these sweets she inhaled them at once, zoom, and her relish was evident with every bite. Later when they kissed, her mouth was all peppermint. He never knew whether he enjoyed that or not because he loved the natural smell of her breath. After she had eaten many of them, kissing her was sort of like kissing a child, which was unsettling if he thought about it.

“A long time after they had broken up, he remembered how she would sit with today’s Altoids box in front of her on the table between them. While they chatted, she would open the tin top, take two out, put them on the tip of her tongue and crunch down. Then she’d carefully close the box until she wanted two more. Which was usually only a few minutes later. Every time she ate them she did it this same way: take two, close the box. Take two, close the box. He liked that tidy gesture. He also liked her impatience with the mints— she never sucked them; instead always just bit right down and chewed as soon as they were in her mouth. Almost every time he saw a box of Altoids long after they had stopped seeing each other, he thought of her and how she had eaten them. In effect, the candy and she were synonymous to him. Sometimes remembering made him happy, sometimes not.”