THE KISS

She didn’t taste of roses, apple blossom, fresh strawberries, plums, the setting sun – how could anyone have a mouth-flavoured sunset? No silken lips either, soft flower petaled things. Hers were rough, chapped by Winter. Curled up, lopsided, when they rose.

And nothing about her touch created fire. Fingers tangled, lips brushed, but his skin didn’t burn beneath them. If it had, he would have worried about being feverish, getting her sick. Or sweating, grossing her out. He worried about that regardless. And if she actually caught fire? That wouldn’t happen… she’d probably end up on telly, studied by scientists, a shining miracle. He’d be the burnt body, obscured in the background. Maybe she would remember him…

But her fingers were cold, drifting paths that lingered like trails of rain drops dried by wind. The same wind that twirled her musty midbrown hair till it tickled his skin and caught on awkward places; his faded shirt buttons, her high-street jewellery. Strands flew into his eyes, which he didn’t close in bliss. Stared, wide eyed, watching without seeing, the curve of her cheek, line of his nose as it pressed into her skin. And then her eyes, catching his, watching, reflecting all his nerves and joy and panic. This wasn’t new to either of them, they had been with other people. Yet it felt, with her in this moment, as if he had never kissed in his life.

His tongue felt clumsy in her mouth, like a loose tooth or a foreign word. Fear flavoured it. Their heads locked, pressing, arms about each other. Movements unsure, this was a dance with no swooping music or helpful steps. At one point he felt like he was going to sneeze.

No dramatic rain fell. No sparkling spring spotlight adorned with twitters of baby birds. It was grey, overcast, 13.40 on a Wednesday, with muck on the side street and fat pigeons soiling the graffitied bus stop. The world didn’t clap or burst into joyous song of congratulation, monotonous people in varying shades of muted colour shoved past oblivious, the traffic wailed same as always.

And yet.

And yet when she, running late at the end of her lunchbreak, swirled round and breathlessly planted her lips against his, a tiny bit of sun forced its way through the clouds. And as she rushed off, with an embarrassed but mischievously delighted smile to those beautiful lips, he knew now that they tasted of the chocolate she had just eaten, and coffee, and hope.

The people, pigeons and traffic marched on with their ceaseless dull beats as he stood, lost, on the cracked pavement. His mouth, newly unfamiliar, struggled to settle. Lips twitched upward, struggling to contain his joy. Astonished and delighted, he sneezed.

Words: Rebecca Raddatz, Photography: Ada Ung, Design: Luna Jezzard