When I got home from Kroger at 6:30 p.m. with $243 worth of raspberries, swim diapers, tamales, kettle corn, limes, and middle-aged regrets, I tooted the horn twice so G would know to come help me unload the car. He strutted out the kitchen door in his green fleece pajama pants. The ones covered in 100 snarling/smiling faces of The Grinch. Just Grinches and belly hair. Go ahead–picture it.
I dare you.
It was at that moment that I realized I didn’t buy any wine. Or razors. Nevertheless, he leaned in the driver’s side door and I hit him with a kiss that threw us both for a little loop. Not the peck on the cheek that goes along with “Have a good day, Sweetie.” Not the smacker that says, “Thanks for taking out the trash!” This was more of a “I remember why I liked you in the first place, back before we needed to buy swim diapers.”
The Kiss IV, Edvard Munch. Image courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art .
A Real Kiss.
I had been thinking about kisses all day, thanks to Facebook. One of my first boyfriends was celebrating a birthday. I went to his page to wish him well and one think led to another and pretty soon I had traveled back in time to a Homecoming dance from 30 years ago. Remembering how new kissing was, how mysterious. How many hours I had spent thinking about kissing and then the instant when I found myself actually doing it! How delicious it felt to slide my hands around his neck for a slow song. How intoxicating it felt to lean closer to whisper something to a boy who smelled like Polo cologne then find myself kissing him. How young. How new. How marvelous.
So, yes, I spent my free time today Facebook stalking every boy I smooched back in the 80s, back before things got complicated. Back when kissing wasn’t all tangled up with groceries and taking out the trash and belly hair. When a kiss was still a kiss.