It was just a kiss. That’s what he kept telling himself. Didn’t mean anything. Lips brushing against cheek, lightly dusting like a bee and pollen… There you go, getting all gushy and mushy and romanticizing about it.
DIDN’T MEAN NOTHING. Yeah. Right.
He’d spotted her at the party right away, mostly because he’d seen her the month before. It was one of those underground art parties, with a crew of regulars who showed up every time with their bean dip and hummus and cheap bottles of wine to slag on about the paintings on the walls and catch up on the latest gossip. Last month had been his first time. He’d known about the parties for years, but hadn’t gone because his ex didn’t want to. Now she was gone and he was floating at loose ends. Especially on a Saturday night.
The first time, he hadn’t said much. He’d been slicing his fresh-baked bread, and she’d brought out her own fresh loaf. He’d smiled and they’d both laughed together about being bakers. She’d said that her name was Heather. He remembered that, and her shy smile, the moment he saw her again. “Did you bring your bread this time?” He asked. She smiled that shy smile, nodded. “Pumpkin. You?” He shrugged. Gestured at his long French baguettes, half of them already cut into chunks for dips and cheese. They traded tastes, smiled again, and then she was called away by a friend. Good bread, he thought. But he kept noticing her at the party. On the other side of the room, talking to a short woman. Outside, laughing on the back porch overlooking the firepit. Sitting on the front steps, listening to the guy with the guitar playing Bob Dylan badly. She had a nice smile, bright eyes, and a tattoo on her calf. Overheard some other guy, hitting on her, asking about the tattoo.
“Ganesh,” she’d said. “Opener of doors.”
“Looks like a weird elephant,” other guy said.
She looked up just then, noticing him noticing her, and rolled her eyes. Other guy had blown it, but didn’t know yet. He nodded a smile back, shrugged. Play it cool. Playing it cool. Cool. Not really cool. His mind was going this way and that, in all directions. Divorced. Separated from his previous life, and previous crowd of friends who he seemed to have lost to his wife. His ex. Ex wife. Rewiring the brain to deal with the change in marital status, the change in social status. The loss of connections. Floating free. Drinking the beer he’d brought and hid in the back of the fridge. Wondering if there was a joint floating around. He’d always liked weed, but hadn’t been doing it much because he wanted to, needed to, keep his shit together. Two months in a row, he’d seen her. Didn’t know what to say, except, “I like your bread.” Watched her at the party. Trying to get up the nerve. Not wanting anything. Bullshit. Wanting everything. Not expecting anything. More accurately, expecting nothing. Prowling. Hunting. Not doing a great job. Just trying to keep it together. The hallway was crowded. He was heading into the house. She was on her way out.
“Yeah, so I’ll see you next time,” she was saying to the host.
She turned and looked at him. “You going?” he said.
She nodded. Shrugged shyly. “Bye, Heather,” he’d said. Leaned over and kissed her cheek. Warm. Soft. Felt a spark. Maybe. Shit, was that too much? She looked surprised, but didn’t jerk back. Didn’t slap him. Hint of that shy smile on her face. The crowd pushed her out and away. He cursed himself. Imagined kicking himself in the ass. Several times. Stupid. Talk more next time. Don’t be so bold. Don’t be such a jerk. Presumptuous. Who knew in these days of accusation and litigation. “Unwanted advances,” filed in a lawsuit? Probably, hopefully, she’d just forget. Certainly he should. Just a kiss. Him fresh out of a broken marriage. Damaged goods, probably. Not looking for anything real. Just looking for something easy. Kisses weren’t easy. They were intimate. At least for him they were. Maybe he needed to learn to disassociate himself from that sort of thinking. Get into a different groove. It was just a kiss. He glanced at his phone as it beeped, a friend request from Heather. Really? She’d looked him up? He smiled. Had he even told her his name? Grinned. Just a kiss? Maybe. Maybe not. •
Mark Binder is an author and former editor of Motif. His latest novel is THE COUNCIL OF WISE WOMEN by Izzy Abrahmson. You can find out more at bit.ly/council-book
Photo: Kathryn Decker, Flickr
