A Portrait of Pain

The Kiss

Word Count: 682 words.

She looks like a revelation. An achingly beautiful revelation.

You've always thought her pretty. That's why you married her. But in this moment, in this narrow instance of being overcome with floods of hungry emotion, you find her more attractive than you ever have before.

Her eyes are closed. Her plump lips parted, slightly, like an open invitation.

You lean towards her. Slowly, because the most important things take their time. They can't be rushed. That isn't in their nature. 

Your mouths touch, yours and hers. Barely. Only just.

But they've touched enough for you to feel the coldness of her lips. This is eerie. Usually they are warm, like an old blanket.

But you don't care. You lean deeper in. You put some weight into the kiss.

Your eyes close, too.

You feel like an explorer. An adventurer, adventuring in the most marvelous chasm there ever was, diving into its depths, plummeting into its frankly unfriendly darkness.

Your chest is pressed against hers. Her breasts feel like they have always wanted to be in this position, like they want to be in this position evermore, like they're in equilibrium, somehow, like this is where they belong.

Your heart is stuttering. Slamming to be let out.

She isn't breathing. So you fill her with your breath. You know she will accept it like a gift. You know she loved gifts. You know she loves you, exactly like you love her.

She isn't returning the kiss, though.

Are you doing this wrong, perhaps? Is this not meant to be, this kiss?

But . . . it can't be . . . it feels . . . so . . . right . . .

Your tongue, like an acrobatic shard of hope, invades her mouth. You're sure she will respond to it. You're sure that, any moment now, her tongue will envelope around yours -- two snakes consummating their match. She will tickle the roof of your mouth, just the way she likes to do it.

When she doesn't do this you panic. You nudge her tongue with yours.

As you prod it more your front teeth, yours and hers, clang together. Not painfully, but not pleasantly either.

The magic is dissolving.

No! your panic erupts. No no no! This mustn't end! This can't end, it can't end, we can't end!

But it is, and they are.

You can feel your mouth growing tired. You can sense your lips getting colder, and colder like hers, as opposed to hers warming up.

You have to pull away. You have to, or you will ruin the moment. You know this, but you also know that it's difficult to end the things you find beautiful. Especially the things you have made. Especially the things you have made with love. Especially the things you have made with the love of another.

Desperately you breathe one last time into her mouth. You exhale some of your essence down her throat. And you hope it reaches the place where her soul is hidden.

You raise your head. Mouths separating, yours and hers, creating a spitline to bridge the divide between your beings with the faintest noise -- like the stirring of a spiderweb -- that marks the end of a romantic moment.

Now you open your eyes, and a tear spills out. You look down at her -- at her pretty, pale face, like the carving of something occult.

Her eyes still don't open. Her lips are a thin, pink, vaguely curved line -- forming a ghostly smile to go with her disarmingly good looks.

You're sure she enjoyed the kiss. So you cry more.

You caress your wife's face. Her skin to the touch is like refrigerated meat.

Her face is pale. Like a pearl. Her cheekbones are jagged, set high. There's a blast of freckles on her beak-like nose. You'll miss those freckles. You already miss those freckles as your tear-lensed vision shifts to her forehead, so perfectly oval, overrun with a shock of grey hair.

How long you inspect her for you do not know.

But in the end you find within yourself the courage to look away.

To carry the coffin.