𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐚 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦 • To You, From The Pacific Winds 🌬

XIII

           I'd seen a fair share of mouth-kisses before. My earliest memory was of Pa and Ma kissing. Him in an apron, her bedridden in a sour-smelling nightgown. And it wasn't a stale memory either -- since the day of their engagement, Salome gave kisses to Francis Belby like the skies gave Oxwich rain. 

          I pretended to be indifferent to it, sometimes regarded it with faux hypochondriasis. But, in truth, it seemed like some faraway luxury I'd never know, the essence of love conveyed in one gesture. It was embarassing to admit -- among the little things that I thought of when I wanted to cry, was the sureness that I'd never earn a romantic kiss ever. I couldn't imagine myself being desired to that extent.

          So, I expected a radical thing after the kiss, I think. Something along the lines of many felicitations and whizzbang firecrackers. But nothing really changed between us. Same banal stories and jokes. Emma's usual facetiousness, my usual chagrin, punctuated by touch. Curious, chaste touch-- just eager to find the boundary, which we never seemed to find.

          There was an unspoken agreement to blindly enjoy this fragile thing while we could. Somewhere in my mind Victor was condemning me in a hundred different ways, but a pretty girl was toying with a ribbon dangling from my collar, and letting her have a good length to twirl seemed like the more urgent matter.

          We talked about everything that could be talked about, because I didn't want to return to our mournful home. Perhaps neither did Emma.

          I liked it most when we talked about us. Us, us, us. I sung the word in my head in melisma. The word was so curt, so certain, like we were a fact. It meant Emma and Meredith were tangled in some ceremonious way. The thought alone induced flights of fancy, and I tried my best to not be that big of a degenerate.

          "Have you ever kissed anyone before?" I asked her. "I mean, before that thing an hour ago."

          "'Course, I have. I'm on high-demand, if you haven't noticed," she said, flipping her hair and giving me catty eyes.

          "Dear God."

          "You said it yourself!"

          Before I could stop myself, I asked as coolly as was possible, "who was it? Who did you kiss?"

          "Just some students. The florists were pleasant, too," she rattled off like they were mere old friends from primary school. "And you ought to see the Llywelyn siblings on Frogshop Street. Goodness gracious, they must be the numina of Cairnholm."

          I tried laughing, but ended up sounding halfway between a jammed throat and tears. Emma looked at me amusedly.

          "I'm not judging, I swear. Just surprised... I mean..." I blathered. "It's fine. I mean, I'm not expecting anything from you just because we... you know..."

          "I kissed them how you'd pet a stray dog," she reassured. "That sounds harsh. But really, there's no love in it. You can't really fall in love with a mere freeze-frame."

          She seemed earnest enough. "Why'd you do it, then? Kiss them?"

          "I was bored. Why else?" She sounded about twenty years older when she said it. "Sometimes I forget you haven't been here long."

          "Well, you're bound to get bored again someday. Then you'll just go and kiss townspeople?"

          "That depends."

          "On?"

          "Whether or not you want me to."

          Oh, Emma. If she kept saying things like that, I'd sooner die of a cardiac arrest than get to brood over immortality.