The Kiss
He perches on the edge of the chair ─leather, light-brown, public─ nervously not knowing where to put his hands. Does he drape one arm nonchalantly over the back of the chair, over her shoulder as she sits and reads, does he simply brace himself against the chair, the wall, anything to avoid an embarrassing fall, does he…the book she reads is romantic. Not pulpy or clichéd, no windblown shirtless man on the front leaf, but romantic in a familiar way, a vaguely tragic way. The bit of the book she is reading features as its central character a girl standing in a hallway waiting for a kiss. He places his hand on the opposite side of the chair from where he sits.
Himself braced, the girl claimed ("My arm is around this girl, my girl") he considers his move made. Like a lion cub on the hunt, old enough to know that the knack lies in creeping silently through the high grass but still inexperienced enough to not quite know what comes next in this art so central to his happiness and wellbeing, he has made a tentative move. Slowly, inexpertly, practiced intellectually but untested in the wild the move is made. She looks up into his face, acknowledging the movement, waiting to see what happens. Expectant.
She hasn't given him much room to sit, despite her invitation to take the seat some ten minutes before. He balances precariously, braced as he is, knowing what is expected to come last in this situation but not knowing what comes next. Face to face now, the book ignored in her lap; the subtly present romance unfolding has taken, momentarily, the place of the subtle literary romance which seemed so engrossing only a moment ago. Positions shift infinitesimally. She leans back into the chair, letting it take all her weight, displacing slightly his arm which he does not feel comfortable leaving directly adjacent to the skin of her neck. He leans forward slightly ─ever so slightly─ and, with a nervous twitch of his cheeks, smiles. She returns the expression kindly, gently, encouragingly (he takes a brief mental note of this last). He has crept silently on padded feet through the tall grass and here he is, knowing it is time to act: he must pounce he must move he must not─
"How's the book so far?"
─break the fragile moment he has before him. He must not, under any circumstances─
"Oh, erm, it's all right. I mean…it's good, real good."
─do what he has just done. He has rustled too much the high grass. He sees the moment slipping away, sprinting away as he perches and feigns interest in the book he has very little intention of reading himself. It was not a mistake or an accident ─"No," he takes a moment to admit to himself, "It was not"─ but instead the impulsive action of a boy not ready for, well, much of anything.
It is a good book, real good; this much he knows. What exactly happened a moment ago? He is a touch less certain on this score. Thus limited in his knowledge and therefore his available categories of further conversation he knows that any further chase would be an exercise in frustration; his young legs are built for padding silently, not yet long or strong enough for open pursuit. Not much left to do but─
"Good. Good. I'll have to check it out sometime."
─cut his losses, call it a game, whatever the euphemism. The hunt is called due to weather; her nose is back in the book. He clumsily slips from the arm of the chair.
Himself braced, the girl claimed ("My arm is around this girl, my girl") he considers his move made. Like a lion cub on the hunt, old enough to know that the knack lies in creeping silently through the high grass but still inexperienced enough to not quite know what comes next in this art so central to his happiness and wellbeing, he has made a tentative move. Slowly, inexpertly, practiced intellectually but untested in the wild the move is made. She looks up into his face, acknowledging the movement, waiting to see what happens. Expectant.
She hasn't given him much room to sit, despite her invitation to take the seat some ten minutes before. He balances precariously, braced as he is, knowing what is expected to come last in this situation but not knowing what comes next. Face to face now, the book ignored in her lap; the subtly present romance unfolding has taken, momentarily, the place of the subtle literary romance which seemed so engrossing only a moment ago. Positions shift infinitesimally. She leans back into the chair, letting it take all her weight, displacing slightly his arm which he does not feel comfortable leaving directly adjacent to the skin of her neck. He leans forward slightly ─ever so slightly─ and, with a nervous twitch of his cheeks, smiles. She returns the expression kindly, gently, encouragingly (he takes a brief mental note of this last). He has crept silently on padded feet through the tall grass and here he is, knowing it is time to act: he must pounce he must move he must not─
"How's the book so far?"
─break the fragile moment he has before him. He must not, under any circumstances─
"Oh, erm, it's all right. I mean…it's good, real good."
─do what he has just done. He has rustled too much the high grass. He sees the moment slipping away, sprinting away as he perches and feigns interest in the book he has very little intention of reading himself. It was not a mistake or an accident ─"No," he takes a moment to admit to himself, "It was not"─ but instead the impulsive action of a boy not ready for, well, much of anything.
It is a good book, real good; this much he knows. What exactly happened a moment ago? He is a touch less certain on this score. Thus limited in his knowledge and therefore his available categories of further conversation he knows that any further chase would be an exercise in frustration; his young legs are built for padding silently, not yet long or strong enough for open pursuit. Not much left to do but─
"Good. Good. I'll have to check it out sometime."
─cut his losses, call it a game, whatever the euphemism. The hunt is called due to weather; her nose is back in the book. He clumsily slips from the arm of the chair.