The Kiss.
I have no idea what this is. Just letting the old writing muscles out for a little stretch I guess.
***
Sometimes she wants to just step up to him, place her lips on his lips and see what happens. She wants to press herself so close to him that it sears them both, leaves them marked and burns away the rickety bridge they’ve tried so hard to maintain over the years. Of course, this is silly. She no longer thinks of him that way, and he doesn’t think of her at all. Not in all the ways that make kisses matter. She lives on the periphery of his vision, a specter that neither of them particularly wish to exorcise. They’re not friends and they’re not lovers. They don’t belong together, they don’t complete each other. They just…belong. Forty years, and it’s become this strange, awning thing that stretches between them like hot, salty taffy; All gooey and messy and in-between. She’s tried to place it more than enough times, but it’s always danced away from her, as elusive and pliant as the shadows she fancies herself being. It’s why she wants this kiss, thinks it will define them, finally, sharpen them like high definition TV or broken glass.
She processes all of this as he hands her a glass of the Cabernet Sauvignon she loves so much. Her feet have fallen asleep under her, so she leans over the arm of the couch, and flexes her tingling toes before accepting the wine. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment as he picks up his own glass. Fine Egyptian cotton whispers across luxury plush and a moment later he’s settled in with his back to the armrest across from her. He’s five inches and eight centimeters away, but they don’t touch. She’s measured it before, pretending she’d dropped her little architect’s ruler by accident. She doesn’t know why, but she wanted to know the exact distance. Curiosity you could say. They haven’t been closer than the five inches and eight centimeters since…since she can remember really.
She catches him watching her-green-gold eyes, framed by crow’s feet, swirling with intelligence. The minute shift and taunting of his muscles as he tilts his head frames his unasked question. And she deciphers it the way she’s deciphered so many things between them, like it’s a puzzle game too easily solved. What are you thinking?
A slow blink and a sip from her wineglass denies him an answer. He accepts the rebuff as silently as he proffered his question.
***
Sometimes she wants to just step up to him, place her lips on his lips and see what happens. She wants to press herself so close to him that it sears them both, leaves them marked and burns away the rickety bridge they’ve tried so hard to maintain over the years. Of course, this is silly. She no longer thinks of him that way, and he doesn’t think of her at all. Not in all the ways that make kisses matter. She lives on the periphery of his vision, a specter that neither of them particularly wish to exorcise. They’re not friends and they’re not lovers. They don’t belong together, they don’t complete each other. They just…belong. Forty years, and it’s become this strange, awning thing that stretches between them like hot, salty taffy; All gooey and messy and in-between. She’s tried to place it more than enough times, but it’s always danced away from her, as elusive and pliant as the shadows she fancies herself being. It’s why she wants this kiss, thinks it will define them, finally, sharpen them like high definition TV or broken glass.
She processes all of this as he hands her a glass of the Cabernet Sauvignon she loves so much. Her feet have fallen asleep under her, so she leans over the arm of the couch, and flexes her tingling toes before accepting the wine. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment as he picks up his own glass. Fine Egyptian cotton whispers across luxury plush and a moment later he’s settled in with his back to the armrest across from her. He’s five inches and eight centimeters away, but they don’t touch. She’s measured it before, pretending she’d dropped her little architect’s ruler by accident. She doesn’t know why, but she wanted to know the exact distance. Curiosity you could say. They haven’t been closer than the five inches and eight centimeters since…since she can remember really.
She catches him watching her-green-gold eyes, framed by crow’s feet, swirling with intelligence. The minute shift and taunting of his muscles as he tilts his head frames his unasked question. And she deciphers it the way she’s deciphered so many things between them, like it’s a puzzle game too easily solved. What are you thinking?
A slow blink and a sip from her wineglass denies him an answer. He accepts the rebuff as silently as he proffered his question.