The Kiss Off
Roman, in summer cocktail attire, lingers in the circa 1600 kitchen as
guest make their way outside to the courtyard where its south-facing
wall is draped in bougainvillea and in one corner of the garden a
not-so-bad replica of the Manneken Pis is busy relieving his little
self. City traffic noises drift up and over the red-tiled roofs into the
garden.
Back in the kitchen, with thumbs in his belt and his shoulder blades
pressed against the cool limestone, Roman’s eyes are resting
alternatively on Rebecca’s hands, covered in red nectarine juice, and
her eyes that remain focused on what she’s doing. She presses her hips
into the heavy butcher-block table, her auburn hair pulled back exposing
her neck.
“So?…” Rebecca says, not taking her eyes off the knife blade she’s
applying to the fruit.
“What do you mean, ‘So?” Roman says. “Were you expecting something?” He
sees her mouth turn up slightly at the corners. What does she know? How
does she know this? His heart is in his throat, racing. Does she detect
my anxiety? She probably does, being a psychologist.
Perhaps she wants something.
“No,” she says. “It’s just that…I mean…you’re standing there like you
want to say something but haven’t said anything.”
“Rebecca,” he begins, but shuts it down, thinking again, do I want to
do this? It’s a scenario he’s fantasized for ten years: Alone with
Rebecca, both their spouses elsewhere, a drink on board to loosen things
up. The fantasy takes off from there. Now is the time. Right here, her
fortieth birthday, nice neighborhood in Florence, all the guests
outside.
“Yeeesss?” she continues.
Roman steps over to the butcher block and brings his face to within six
inches of hers. She’s wearing a hint of fragrance. “Rebecca, I was
wondering. Do you think we could ever…”—he closes his lids for a full
second—“do you think we could…kiss…and not have it ruin both our
marriages?”
Rebecca lays the ten-inch blade down on the butcher block and wipes her
hands on the towel hanging from the strap of her apron.
“Before we’re too old to care?” Roman throws in as a
postscript.
Rebecca raises her head. Her eyes are right at the level of Roman’s
lips. She looks up to meet his eyes, alluring enough with those dark
lashes, then drops back to examine his mouth again. “Get over yourself,
Roman. My marriage is pretty solid.”
“Well…yeah. Of course. I meant…”
She rises onto her toes, casts a furtive glance over his shoulder into
the courtyard to make sure no one is looking, turns her face to meet his
and lifts her wet palm up against his face. He leans in to meet the
softness of her lips and warmth of her mouth.
In truth, other than what Roman had perceived over the years as an
undeclared mutual animal attraction, he and Rebecca had never been all
that compatible. Control issues or something. Politics, perhaps.
Feminism, for sure: she could never accept that men might view women
first and foremost as sexual objects, with everything else
secondary.
They kiss. Each transports the other into uncharted territories of
texture, flavor, and smell. Rebecca emits a faint murmur, mostly air. He
presses against her, feels her shape and she, his incipient excitement
against her hip. They pull back with an audible moist sound, sensing
disaster, but laughter is all they hear filtering in from the courtyard.
They look at each other for an instant, but a longer instant than ever
before. She drops her lids again and brings her fingers to her
mouth.
“So I guess that’s it,” Roman says.
“Guess so.” Flushed, she returns to her bowl of nectarines. “Guess
we’re not too old,” Rebecca says.
“No. Guess not.”
He puts his hands in his pockets, turns, and shuffles toward the
courtyard to join the rest of the party.
“Better wipe the juice off your face.”
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