Resisting Kissing

I have to say that every time I am entitled to a kiss I make a few observations.

The first is "where is my mind?"

In the moment if I can catalog what is happening, continue to plan for the next day, and remind myself that I need to get more fennel seeds, I am not engaged.

Like dancing, kissing should be an all-encompassing event.

No worrying, no freaking out in the moment.

Complete engagement. Complete abandon.

Forget about where my chapstick is.

Forget about the savory artichoke-leek tart I just finished.

Savor the Anchor Steam from my partner's lips.

Savor the hand caressing the back of my neck.

Savor the element of surprise.

Weren't we just talking about NYU? And mythology?

How did we become engaged in this moment?

When did I let go? When did amnesia set in?

And why was it a honking truck that disengaged the moment in the driveway?

Isn't that supposed to happen in high school?

I pulled back, covered my face with my hands, and nervously laughed at myself.

Perhaps I wasn't prudish enough.

You complimented me.

You kissed my hand. (You had me at kissing my hand.

The rest was all playing the game of courtship.)

Monday night.

Luka's.

Carribean music.

Que bien.