THE KISS
At nine years old, Lynette kissed the boy who lived down the street. They met behind the slide, the one which sat in the corner playground, built of plastic and rust. The boy, Alex, liked to command his army men in the playground fort, and Lynette ran into him while he was orchestrating a campaign. She came around the edge of the slide, tripped over a flanking battalion, and Alex helped her up. Before she quite knew what had happened, she had kissed him: a peck on the lips.
After Lynette had fled, the kiss lingered. Alex abandoned his army in the field and wandered home, his heart filled suddenly with poetry. He strived to paint the stubborn kiss in words, writing sonnet after sonnet to the girl who had trampled his battalion and ended an entire imaginary war with a single missed step. He would grow up with the feeling of her lips against his, a half-remembered dream, and twenty three years later, his inability to capture the shadow of a fleeting cloud would lead him to suicide. He would leave no note, only one last verse, and his poems would, posthumously, be declared some of the greatest of the modern age.
As for Lynette, she would go on to kiss many others, and the dream of a summer's day and an accidental gift would soon be forgotten in a sea of other beauties.
At nine years old, Lynette kissed the boy who lived down the street. They met behind the slide, the one which sat in the corner playground, built of plastic and rust. The boy, Alex, liked to command his army men in the playground fort, and Lynette ran into him while he was orchestrating a campaign. She came around the edge of the slide, tripped over a flanking battalion, and Alex helped her up. Before she quite knew what had happened, she had kissed him: a peck on the lips.
After Lynette had fled, the kiss lingered. Alex abandoned his army in the field and wandered home, his heart filled suddenly with poetry. He strived to paint the stubborn kiss in words, writing sonnet after sonnet to the girl who had trampled his battalion and ended an entire imaginary war with a single missed step. He would grow up with the feeling of her lips against his, a half-remembered dream, and twenty three years later, his inability to capture the shadow of a fleeting cloud would lead him to suicide. He would leave no note, only one last verse, and his poems would, posthumously, be declared some of the greatest of the modern age.
As for Lynette, she would go on to kiss many others, and the dream of a summer's day and an accidental gift would soon be forgotten in a sea of other beauties.
