The Kiss
What if we kiss standing on the tips of two freshly disconnected cherry stems, tiny humanoid figures reaching our flesh across the expanse, straining our antennae until they touch, gripping our toes into the soft pith of the stems so we don’t fall into the chasm of the green, molded, paper-pulp berry basket below? What if we put our arms out toward one another and our skin prickles in the frigid breeze of the refrigerator, the coffee creamer carton and plastic-wrapped fruit the only witnesses as our delicate fingers interlace? What if, after months of texting back and forth through the artificial winter air about the difference in flavor between our respective cherries, after our arduous clambering from our cherry-pit homes, we pucker our tiny cherry-stained lips, so, so ready? What if our lips finally meet, our puckers release, into a make-out so soft and tart and juicy we could drip our way down the chin of God herself, a rolling bead of red liquid, unstoppable?
