Kissing
KISSING
“In France they kiss on Main Street. . . “
-Joni Mitchell
They were a couple in their forties, I’d say. Maybe she was in her middle thirties. I don’t know. They were kissing. I mean really kissing. . . no mere peck on the cheek. Just really engaged in the act of kissing.
There were a pair of rental trucks parked in the lot between a Walgreens and a pseudo-English pub, and they were standing there toward the rear of one of them. She was in a flowery dress. . . not a sundress, but one with a collar and proper shirt front, with a flared skirt below the waistline. Dark hair, kind of exotic. He had short steely grey hair, his face clean shaven, and he was wearing a plain white tee shirt and jeans.
I don’t know if they were meeting, parting, if they were driving the two trucks separately, if they had anything to do with the trucks at all. But in the mid-afternoon on Summer Solstice they stood there, his hands cradling her face, her arm around his waist, and they kissed. . . sometimes delicately, sometimes cocking their heads to dive deeply into it. I am sure they exchanged tongues several times. He would draw back and gaze into her eyes, just drinking in her beauty seemingly. They didn’t seem to be speaking. After a few seconds of gazing, their lips would meet again, his hands caressing her cheeks.
I made a pretext of getting things together to go into Walgreens, putting on my COVID mask, taking out a shopping bag. . . anything to sit a few minutes more and watch this couple out of the side of my eye, self-contained and passionate and happy, not of an age one would expect this. . . just happily and contentedly kissing. I finally went in to conduct my shopping chore, and they were gone when I came back out to my car.
I wonder what their story really was all about.
“In France they kiss on Main Street. . . “
-Joni Mitchell
They were a couple in their forties, I’d say. Maybe she was in her middle thirties. I don’t know. They were kissing. I mean really kissing. . . no mere peck on the cheek. Just really engaged in the act of kissing.
There were a pair of rental trucks parked in the lot between a Walgreens and a pseudo-English pub, and they were standing there toward the rear of one of them. She was in a flowery dress. . . not a sundress, but one with a collar and proper shirt front, with a flared skirt below the waistline. Dark hair, kind of exotic. He had short steely grey hair, his face clean shaven, and he was wearing a plain white tee shirt and jeans.
I don’t know if they were meeting, parting, if they were driving the two trucks separately, if they had anything to do with the trucks at all. But in the mid-afternoon on Summer Solstice they stood there, his hands cradling her face, her arm around his waist, and they kissed. . . sometimes delicately, sometimes cocking their heads to dive deeply into it. I am sure they exchanged tongues several times. He would draw back and gaze into her eyes, just drinking in her beauty seemingly. They didn’t seem to be speaking. After a few seconds of gazing, their lips would meet again, his hands caressing her cheeks.
I made a pretext of getting things together to go into Walgreens, putting on my COVID mask, taking out a shopping bag. . . anything to sit a few minutes more and watch this couple out of the side of my eye, self-contained and passionate and happy, not of an age one would expect this. . . just happily and contentedly kissing. I finally went in to conduct my shopping chore, and they were gone when I came back out to my car.
I wonder what their story really was all about.
4 years ago
