Sunday Scribblings: Kisses

Kisses can be stolen, snatched up by someone who has no right to them, who ferrets them away away into a designer pocketbook just as a teenager sneaks a tube of mascara into a backpack.

Kisses can be stolen, y'know.

Kisses can be stolen with an air of entitlement. Petal lips brushing a stubbled cheek at Happy Hour.

How are you doing? It's sooo good to see you again.

And while the wife makes room at the table by moving her coat, folding it over the spine of her own chair, the husband remembers the kiss as he watches the woman who stole it sit down, crossing her long thin legs that end with strappy stiletto shoes. She laughes at a joke, her mouth open wide, and he remembers that kiss and remembers it again and again and again.

A kiss on the edge of a wine glass, leaving lipstick prints, like a sloppy thief who forgot to wear gloves.

And he remembers that kiss again and again.

The stolen kisses are the dangerous ones. Like grenades, they are poised to explode into something larger.

He is closer to the woman than he is to his wife, his pants kissing long thin legs with strappy stiletto shoes under the table.

And his wife gulps her margarita and feels a dull thump in her head and lists the things that can be stolen.

Bathrobes, soap, afternoons away from the office.

Kisses.
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