The Long Kiss Goodnight
The date was going along nicely until David was struck with a cold realization, one that made his stomach a hollow pit, and his flesh feel suddenly mortified.
I might have to kiss her
. It wasn't that David was opposed to kissing, but frankly, it had been a long time since he had kissed a girl. A very long time. In fact, it had been a long time since David had been on a date. As near as he could remember, it was two presidents ago. He didn't remember exactly. Our minds have a brilliant ability to forget painful experiences. He'd heard somewhere that it was a survival instinct of some sort.
David was a normal guy. He was bright enough, was well liked, honest, helpful and courteous. He was average looking, with hair that was always slightly tousled, eyes that he liked to think were piercing, and an average build. He was a good listener, loved his mother, and was always respectful to women. In fact, women frequently came to him to: cry on a shoulder, talk about problems with boyfriends, get advice on a variety of subjects, or to ask him to move heavy furniture for no particular reason. He knew from experience that any woman he was friends with long enough would at some point utter a phrase that had plagued him all his life.
"
Oh David, why can't I find a guy like you?" He'd heard it thirty times if he'd heard it once, and he knew he'd heard it once. The words varied a bit from girl to girl but the thought was always the same, and every time he also heard the part they left unsaid -
but not you.
It wasn't that David had never had a girlfriend. He'd spent most of his twenties with a woman he'd thought he'd spend the rest of his life with. Fortunately, she eventually had other ideas. The fact that she had left him, when he couldn't bring himself to leave her, was evidence that life wasn't always out to get him. Since then he'd managed to go on a handful of dates, but in moments when he was honest with himself, a rather rare occurrence, he had to admit that calling them dates was a bit aggrandizing. After all, having lunch at the same table in the break room at work, giving one a ride home when her car was broken down, or going to one's apartment to move heavy furniture for no particular reason didn't technically qualify as a date; even if she did ask him to stay for pizza after, and no, of course he didn't mind paying. No point in her having to write a check.
He couldn't allow himself to get caught up in those thoughts now though, he had to deal with the problem at hand, and right now she was across the table pushing a fork full of ranch-slathered salad into her mouth. If the rest of the date went as well as the first of it had, she would no doubt expect to be kissed goodnight.
David did not doubt that he could remember how to have sex. If his memory was correct, he thought he had even been rather fond of it at one time, but any beast on earth could do what was necessary for that. It was as simple as filling receptacle A with widget B. Technique and proficiency aside, it was a fairly straightforward proposition. Plus, he really didn't expect the evening to offer up that particular entrée. Especially if he couldn't get past the kiss.
David was unsure which he'd been longer, hopeless or romantic, but being firmly entrenched in both now, he was painfully well aware that the kiss is where passion lies. Any creature can make the beast with two backs, but only man can share a kiss. Sharing hot breath that pulses in and out of each others bodies, face to face, blood thrumming, lips pressed firmly, slightly parted; it was a physical metaphor for the devouring of the person. A kiss had been used to wake a sleeping beauty, and to appease many a receiving pontiff. They have turned toads into princes, and sealed a Savior's fate. Their importance was inescapable, and David was quite sure he could not remember how.
His face froze in a rictus grin as he nodded and added, hopefully, appropriate comments to appropriate breaks in Wendy's conversation. He methodically, repeatedly pushed his own salad-filled fork into his mouth, and frantically tried to remember what it was like to kiss a woman.
What if I don't do it right? No woman is going to want to go out with a guy who doesn't know how to kiss. What if this heretofore abandoned ringing of my proverbial bell elicits a Pavlovian response, leaving her longing for a lab-coated assistant she can turn to and say "More suction please." What if my mouth gets so dry you could strike a match in it, all moisture being redirected to palms with no use for it. What if I come in too hard and leave us both with fat lips, or heaven forbid, somehow bloody her nose? What am I eating? Will my breath be bad? Will her tongue find my crooked teeth? What should I do with my hands? Do I dare entwine my fingers with hers, or put one hand behind her neck and use one at the small of her back to draw her in, or will that make her feel trapped? Should I just keep them at my side, lean in and peck her on the check? No, this is not my mother I'm kissing. What am I going to do?
Somehow he had managed to finish his meal, and he didn't remember her saying, "What the hell are you staring at?" or, "Are you listening to me?" But then, he didn't really remember anything she had said. He helped her into her coat as they prepared to leave. He paid the check, left a tip somewhat in excess of his normally carefully calculated fifteen percent, and made sure to hold the door for her as they left the restaurant. He began a form of walking meditation he used in situations where he was extremely nervous. He controlled his breathing, taking measured breaths - in through the nose, out through the mouth - remembering to use his diaphragm. As he opened her car door, he finally began to gain control of his thoughts.
This won't be so bad. How hard can it be? I've done this before. Besides, first kisses are always awkward, right? It will be fine. I'll be fine.
He walked around and got into the driver side of his car. With a comfortable grin on his face, the one that told his close friends he was up to no good, he began to prepare himself for the upcoming event. He licked his lips, ran his tongue over his crooked teeth checking for stray bits of food. He began to converse with his date as if he had been there all evening.
He parked in front of her walkway and smoothly exited the car, stepping around quickly to help her out on her side. As they walked to the porch, he laid his hand lightly on the small of her back. He noticed a moth fluttering around her porch light. Flying into it and away again, into it and away again. They stepped into the peach-colored glow. Her eyes fixed him with a formulated phrase that left him pinned and wriggling on the wall. She said "I had a really nice time tonight," but he heard -
at least I got a free meal out of it -
in her voice. Then he heard the wooden screen door bang shut. She tossed an "I'll call you," over her shoulder at him as she closed the door and threw the bolt. He knew she didn't have his number. He stepped down from the porch and out of the light, the year's long process of forgetting already begun.
