Seven Ways of Looking at a Kiss

A glimpse, brief, in the gloom of a narrow alley. Midnight, or a little later, or a lot. They are pressed up against the wall; her arms slide up around his neck. They kiss.

One

Her hips are cocked against the wall at just the right angle. Red silk on reddish brick, the bare skin of her back crisscrossed by shadows like whip scars. One stiletto breaks the iridescence of an oil slick, the other anchors the triangle of her bent leg against the wall. Blonde ringlets spill down around her shoulders. The light is perfect.

He approaches her from around the corner, casting a darker shadow on the alley shades. She looks up at him as he leans in against her. Blue eyes gazing into green: ice and poison. Her arms drape around his neck.

He pulls her closer, his hands wrinkling the silk of her shirt as they inch toward skin. His head drips down, lips pressing against her neck, arms tightening around her waist. He braces one forearm against the wall. Her head falls back, moist red lips open in a perfect “O.” Her eyes flutter closed and her back arches. He’s all sharp angles and deep shadows; she’s soft curves and bright colors. It’s almost too much; it’s almost perfect.

They kiss. His hands on her waist, their lips coming together, the spill of her hair in the lamplight — their kiss everything a kiss should be, and still uninteresting. She’s posed too stiffly; the boy has no imagination.

“Stop!” They halt mid-kiss and disentangle themselves. He closes the distance between himself and the couple in a few strides puts down his camera on a trashcan lid. He looks at the boy, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, confident.

“You’re kissing her like you’re changing a tire. Try to make it feel real.” He walks around them, gestures, making suggestions about movements, trying to communicate what he wants. “Try again,” he says.

They start over: her back to the wall, her bent leg, the shadowy approach around the corner. But as soon as they touch he’s photographing life-sized dolls. The light is good, the color is good, the background is good, but there’s no subject. They’re doing everything he said to the letter, but somehow they make it boring.

“Here.” He interjects himself between them, hand against the wall beside her head. “This is what I want.”

She opens her shiny red mouth to speak, and he covers it with his own. He kisses her, hands sliding over her back and pulling through her curls, body pressing her smooth skin into the scratchy wall, mouth smearing her lipstick. He swirls her like paints on a palette.

He releases her so suddenly she stumbles against the wall. She’s still a moment. The light plays twisted games with her tousled curls and slicks across her parted lips. Her shirt’s red silk in the shadows smears into the reddish wall, and one bare shoulder shows the imprint of the bricks. The imperfections make her perfect.

He gets ten shots before she catches her breath.

Two

He presses her against the wall, locking his hands in the small of her back. He buries his face in her hair, filling his nostrils with her cheap perfume. Her knee-high boots creak as she shifts her weight, pulling away from him. She looks him in the eyes.

“Two hundred an hour. Two-fifty for the kinky shit.” Her eyes are cold.

“Ok, sure, fine.” He strokes her face. “Let’s not talk about the money, ok? Kiss me.” She shrugs.

“When I have it we won’t talk about it.” She holds out her hand, palm up. He takes out his wallet, counts the bills slowly into his palm. She waits while he double-checks his math, idly scratching her arms. After she pockets the money, her face shifts. She smiles, her eyes sparkle. Her arms glide up around his neck and she kisses him, her hips grinding into him.

She tastes like cigarette smoke and her body in his arms feels fragile like a bird’s. She smells like sweat and another man’s cologne. If she’s over seventeen he’ll eat his hat.

He slides his hands under her skirt.

Three

Her arms snake up around his neck, skin whispering against the black cloth of his shirt. Sharp kitten teeth graze his ear, and he shudders. She whispers, hot breath scorching his neck.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

“You haven’t sinned yet.”

“But I will.” Her candy-apple lips are a breath away from his, their bodies barely touching. The seconds pay out like fishing line, and he still has time to pull away.

He buries his face in her sweet-smelling hair, lifts her off her feet to crush her against the wall. She tastes like strawberries and whiskey and her body feels like heaven. Her lips trail fire down his neck and his eyes roll up toward the stars.

He thinks, it’s been ten years since my last confession.

Her body is lithe in his arms: muscles gliding under velvet skin. He slides his hand under her shirt, across the skin of her back. She moans. It’s almost a purr, something he feels instead of hears. She twines her fingers in his hair, coils her body around his. Their lips meet. Hers are hot, their softness varnished glossy red.

She writhes against him, and another moan escapes her; she’s trying too hard. She struggles to keep his mind a blank. She dreads the coming moment when he’ll turn away from her. She traces her nails down his chest, her fingers dancing along his waistband before sliding lower.

His hands convulse on her waist; he hisses through his teeth. He takes a shaking breath as she sinks to her knees. She gazes up at him, and her hair in the lamplight frames her face like a blazing halo. She reaches for his belt buckle.

The blood thunders in his ears and his pulse thuds against the skin of his neck as he twists his fingers in her hair. And suddenly he feels the hell fire in her touch, tastes it on his lips where they touched hers. It crackles around him in the lamplight, flanked by shadows on the dirty walls. He pulls away from her with a curse.

“I can’t do this.”

“But…”

“I’m sorry.” He zips up his pants and straightens his collar without looking at her. Resignation chases disappointment from her eyes: the slow fading of hope. She sags against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. She looks up at him and their eyes meet in time for him to see a tear glide down her cheek. One of his flock in pain, and himself the cause. When he reaches to wipe away the tear there’s nothing else he could have done.

I can never know God’s mercy if I have nothing to confess.

They come together so easily, like a book dropping on a marble floor. Her skin under his lips is fever-hot, and his breath comes in ragged gasps. Their tangled bodies fall to earth outside the circle of the lamplight.

Four

They careen into the alley in a tangle of limbs, breathless. She grabs him by the lapels and pulls him to her, mouth feeding at his. He grabs a handful of her hair as they stumble against the wall, fingers scrabbling at each other’s clothes.

“Get off me!”

She shoves him away, hands flat against his chest. He shoves her back against the wall, slams his body into hers. Her nails draw blood as they rake across his back; their lips bruise against each other’s teeth.

“Stop.” It comes out as a groan.

“Don’t you want me?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“Shut up.”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you too.”

Then there are no more words.

Five

“Kiss me.”

He hesitates, his hands resting lightly on her hips. Her lips are parted, revealing white, even teeth. Her grey eyes narrow as her hands entrap his neck.

“Go on,” she breathes, pressing her body against his. She’s beautiful. He knows that her lips are full, her face exquisite, her breasts still high and firm. Her beauty washes over him and leaves him untouched. He kisses her.

Her lips are soft on his, her mouth pliant. Her tongue dances in his mouth with practiced skill as her hands rake through his hair. He feels nothing.

The woman in his arms moves, plants her lips on his neck, wraps his arms around her. Her nails trace down his chest, her fingers are deft as they undo his belt buckle.

“Wait,” he says. She doesn’t even pause. Her manicured fingers slide inside his pants and he gasps. No one’s ever touched him there before. “Stop,” he breathes.

She looks up at him. “What’s wrong?” she whispers. “Don’t you think I’m beautiful?”

“Yes, but I…” She squeezes, and his knees buckle. He steadies himself against the brick wall, takes a shaking breath. “Of course you’re beautiful. It’s just that I’ve never… I mean I don’t… you don’t…”

“I know,” she says. “I saw you two kissing behind the gym after school. Teachers have eyes in the backs of their heads, you know. I see everything.”

His eyes widen. Fear courses through him. He starts to pull away, but her hand contracts again. It draws a sound from his throat, a helpless kitten sound. His body tightens and his head snaps back. She steps up close to him, puts her lips beside his ear.

“Do you want me to tell your parents about your boyfriend? Is that what you want?”

He shakes his head, tears pushing up in the back of his throat. She pulls him to the ground. She’s on top of him, touching him, doing things to him. I won’t cry I won’t cry I won’t I won’t I won’t. But he cries anyway.

Six

He presses her against the wall with his body, one hand tangled in her hair. He tilts her head back until he can look into her eyes. They’re wide, bright blue: china doll eyes. And the rest of her matches. Blonde ringlets, translucent skin, mouth open in a little “O.” She’s almost too perfect to look at, her image seared on his retinas like a solar flare. She’s trembling in his arms. He smiles.

He thrusts his body against hers, feels her breasts squash against his chest. She makes a tiny moaning noise and writhes against him. He tightens his grip on her hair, forcing her head back even farther. He’s breathless with desire. “Kiss me,” he whispers.

She moans again, that high little sound that makes his blood pound in his ears. She turns her head aside and he buries his face in her neck. They are both shaking.

He presses the knife harder into her skin. He can smell her fear, taste it on the tip of his tongue, sweet like rotting fruit. She gasps, and a trickle of blood slides down her neck. He bends his head and licks it from her skin. He rolls the blood around his mouth, and its copper taste is candy-sweet.

“Kiss me,” he demands again.

She tries harder to pull away. He winds her curls tighter around his hand until she whimpers in pain. He kisses her, shoving his tongue into her mouth.

She tastes her own blood in his mouth and gags, wrenching her head away. He has to lower the knife to hold her still, and then she moves. He didn’t expect it, not really; the knife was a formality. He moves a little too slow, and her knee glances off his thigh and connects with his groin. It’s not a direct hit, but it’s enough to drop him to the ground. The knife slips from his fingers as he struggles to catch his breath. But he’s a man of purpose. Through the pain he remembers why he’s here, and he grabs her ankle as she tries to run.

She goes down hard on the pavement with a shriek, and he’s on top of her before she can get up. She screams, and he hits her backhanded across the face. Blood flies from her lip and she screams again. He laughs and reaches for his belt. She’s twisting back and forth, scraped hands scrabbling along the ground, bleeding on her white skin and his new shirt.

He has his pants undone. He forces his knee between her legs and pulls up her skirt. She’s wearing black lace panties — not so innocent after all. He smiles as she twists and sobs, trying to get away, clawing along the ground for something to grab. He starts to tear her underwear away, and out of the corner of his eye he sees something glinting in her hand as she raises it toward his face.

The knife sinks in to the hilt. Blood spurts from his neck as she pulls it out again. The blood is everywhere: painting her face and chest, mixing with the dirty water on the ground, spattered on the grimy walls. She shoves him off of her and staggers to her feet as he gasps and chokes on his own blood.

She kicks him in the face. Her stiletto shatters his nose, sprays blood on the ground. She kicks him again, and again, and again. She keeps kicking him after he’s dead, kicks until the blood soaks through her shoe and her throat is raw from screaming and she stumbles away to vomit against the blood-spattered wall.

Seven

“Shh.” She twines her hands around his neck, pulls him close to whisper in his ear. His hand slides up her back, his body presses against hers. She kisses him. Her lips are on his, but her eyes are wide open, her body stiff in his arms.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he savors every last sensation. Her body in his arms, the smell of her hair, the taste of her lips …

She’s watching the street over his shoulder, her whole body quivering with nerves, waiting for the right moment. She fingers her badge in her pocket, trying to run through the details of the operation in her head. The kiss is distracting her, intruding on her desperate attempts to stay calm and alert. His lips are chapped.

The man across the street glances their way again, and she closes her eyes. It takes everything she has to keep her eyes closed, to keep from watching him too intently and giving it all away. But she’s been working toward this moment for months; she’s not about to slip up and ruin it now. She focuses on the man in her arms just a little more, digging her nervous fingers into his back to keep them from twitching to her gun.

He feels her long nails through the fabric of his shirt, and he kisses her with renewed urgency. He presses her harder against the wall, tries to squeeze his whole self through the aperture of their joined lips. She kisses him harder, dragging her nails along his back, her body saying lust. But he knows her body speaks in lies, and he tries to block out the misinformation to just see the truth.

She breaks the kiss, looks over his shoulder. Her breath is warm on his neck, and he fights back a shiver. He turns his head just enough to whisper in her ear. “What’s going on?”

“They’re talking. Almost time. You ready?”

He nods. He reaches for his gun just as she’s doing the same, and their hands brush. He notices, she doesn’t; he notices that she doesn’t. He can feel her getting ready. The jittery nervousness goes out of her body, her movements become more fluid. He steps back so they are no longer touching, freeing his hands. He looks her in the eye for the first time all night. She meets his eyes and nods, and the intensity in her face almost makes him flinch. For a moment they are perfectly still, understanding crackling between them just like it’s supposed to. Then they move.

The quiet coalesces into motion and chaos. She goes first, exploding across the street, gun in her hand, shouting. He’s shouting too; everyone’s shouting. There’s running and shooting and screaming and shouting.

It’s over so fast it’s hard for him to believe it happened at all. He watches her hands, graceful even holding a gun. She’s like the heroine in a spy movie: calm, poised, lethal. Catlike, that’s the word. She speaks. Her words aren’t for him, and he’s heard them all before, but still he listens carefully.

Her voice comes out breathless from exertion, the words burning her throat. “You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.”

In the car, he looks over at her and smiles. He puts into his smile what he hopes they shared in the alley. He succeeds; she understands exactly what his eyes are saying and looks pointedly at the road. She focuses on driving. My job is hard enough already without this puppy and his crush, she thinks. Maybe I can ask the chief to get me a new partner. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.

He smiles at her again. She looks away.