Glasgow Kiss

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Her lips were still warm when he kissed them, petal-soft, unyielding. It was like kissing a child’s lips at bed time: he could remember that sensation, recalling vividly how the drowsy breath exhaled in a tiny shudder.

But the girl made no response even when he let his finger run across her cheek, down to the corner of her mouth. He could still see traces of pink gloss smeared over the tiny ridges that crossed her parted lips, smell her familiar scent; hands cupped across his nostrils, he breathed in the sweetness mingling with his own sweat. The sun filtered through the leaves, warming his back, filling him with a deep sense of peace as if the world understood his longings and had colluded to bring about this ultimate satisfaction. A kiss, just one kiss: that was all he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever desired.

When he finally looked into her eyes, wide with horror, he had to look away. He turned, hand on his mouth to stop the sound coming out, shaking his head in disbelief. Looking at these eyes spoiled everything.

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