Do you ever see some people and wonder what their kissing is like? I do. I do not wonder how their lips would feel against mine; but what it looks like when they pout and press those thin or rosy or dry-looking lips against their respective partners’. I definitely wonder about Lucky, the driver. He…
Do you ever see some people and wonder what their kissing is like? I do. I do not wonder how their lips would feel against mine; but what it looks like when they pout and press those thin or rosy or dry-looking lips against their respective partners’. I definitely wonder about Lucky, the driver. He is always chewing gum viciously and I imagine that he is a rough kisser; that he probably holds his lover’s head captive while thrusting his tongue between her teeth. As for Celine, the girl at the front desk; because she looks so uptight and never has a hair out of place; because her lush red lipstick does not stray a breath away from the boundaries of her lips- I often wonder if she kisses with her mouth closed. Or if she picks up a pocket tissue to wipe away her lipstick- pops a mint, maybe- then sensibly places herself within reach of her lover. Or if passion transforms her into an unidentifiable bundle of abandon and energy.
I have caught myself wondering about Adewale and Chioma although they believe their affair to be secret. If his mustache tickles her and makes her giggle or if she has snapped at him to cut it off in that husky authoritative voice of hers. Does he play with the mole that is just to the left of her lips, the one that is more pronounced when she smiles? Or does he ignore it, accruing its presence to some superstitious belief like he does most other things?
Whenever I find myself before a mirror, running my cherry- flavoured ChapStick over my own lips, it seems almost odd that I won’t be kissing anyone anymore.
I have kissed many men. Philip grabbed my bottom when he kissed me the first time; he pushed me against the paint-stained wall of his shabby but chic loft. I called that an artist’s passion. Akin kissed me in the elevator and although my dropped suitcase made my toes hurt for days after, his long manicured fingers passed heat through my silk blouse to my waist and made those very toes curl. He was the romantic gentleman. Then there was Chukwudi who breathed too heavily. Mark, who tried to swallow my tongue. Tunde who didn’t understand there was such a thing as kissing without hands underneath my shirt. Chris, who wouldn’t come up for air and left me dizzy. Many men.
I won’t be kissing Abdul anymore. Not because I do not find his lips attractive; not because I believe his full beard would be abrasive against my face. I spend my days pining for him and I would very much like to run into his arms when I get home; to be swept up in a crushing hug and have my hungry lips sated with his warm breath.
But it is not to be. Abdul is not tangible.
No. I am not crazy although I thought I was.
Abdul was anything but intangible when he came back from the dead.
You would understand why my heart had begun to beat double time when the room had suddenly become stifling warm despite the whirring of the ceiling fan and the slight breeze drifting in from the open French windows. I had spied a movement at the corner of my room. I live alone and my door was locked, it permitted me to faint when I finally looked up.
I had come to from my faint to see him staring down at me. He was bent over at the waist, leaning over the bed and staring back at me. He really is beautiful, especially now that I know he is immortal, and mine. The corners of his eyes had crinkled when he smiled and I find it, even now, a bit puzzling that I had accepted this weird thing so easily. I, who likes to question an atom’s divisibility, moved along with this so…simply.
I am a happy woman, no doubt. Who wouldn’t be when her once illegal lover is no longer illegal? When he no longer has to return to his evil wife and judgmental children each night? No timetables; no sneaking around- no need for diplomacy or choosing my words very carefully so I do not sound inconsiderate.
I make Lucky drive past the huge mansion that his wife and children have inherited just so I can gloat with my secret. My secret that Abdul died but chose to return to me. This is the utmost validation; that he loved me and still does. There is no end to the gladness I feel that I refrained from asking him to choose while he still lived. He saw my self-sacrifice and has rewarded me.
So, she can have the cars and all his wealth and what he left behind. I have him. She refused to let him go when he begged; refused to append a signature on the divorce papers when he presented them with the sweetest deal. But he is free now and with me.
And although my tongue can’t trail his bottom lip anymore before sliding into the warm taste of cigarettes; I have him by my side at night. His hands cannot knead my back with the earnestness that made me laugh but he is still here in the morning and stands there and talks to me while I take a shower. I won’t be whimpering in pure ecstasy anymore because his kisses aren’t being peppered between my breasts, up to my neck, nibbling my earlobe then strolling back down to my navel but he listens when I tell him about my day and he tells me he loves me without the apprehension that I am going to ask him to run away with me.
There’s no more kissing Abdul- no more heady rush; no tongue to wrestle; no more gripping unto his kaftan as we go deeper- but there is having Abdul and this is more than enough for me.
Oh, did you think this was just about kissing? Sorry, this is Betty Tuesdays. Use the comment box to share your thoughts on the story.