He hasn't kissed me. Not on the cheek, not on the hand, obviously not on the lips.
In a week we saw two movies, had a picnic, went shopping, babysat his little sister... but no kissing.
Such a powerful word. Kiss. Its absolutely exquisite. Even the way it's pronounced; it's air kissing. I want Adrian to kiss me.
He's got lovely lips. Pink and always curved in a smile, or a smirk, or the memory of a smile. He's always chewing gum (spearmint) and I imagine that's how he tastes. Delicious.
A boy sitting on a barstool a few feet down keeps chewing his lip. It's a bruising red, and a little chapped. He's the only other minor in the Irish pub. He looks about eighteen and has a glass bottle of coke between his long-fingered hands. He looks worried; dark eyebrows drawn in, lips weathered by his own teeth, eyes lowered to the red labelled bottle as if it holds the secrets if the universe.
His sweater is soft, black, and charmingly tattered. The sleeves worn and a little but ragged, like he just doesn't care anymore, but it curves lovingly around his slumped shoulders. His eyes are as dark as the sweater, but he hasn't met my eye since the cursory glance when I sat down.
A woman, kind of young but not really, sits on his other side. She pretends to read a Jane Austen novel but she's drawn to his mouth too. She licks her lips.
Hers are a colour I associate with watermelon, though the fruit is much slighter in comparison. Glossy and bright pink, plump and youthful, they curve into a flirtatious pout.
She reaches over and plucks up the black hardcover sitting next to his bottle. Oh, Rilke. I love him, She says.
He looks at her without raising his head. It's only a cursory glance, a flick beneath his lashes, an affirmation that he heard her; the minimum required to be vaguely polite.
So you read a lot? She presses, patting her own book with pride as if she wrote it.
No. He replies with a soft, wry voice. His voice is as soft as his hair looks, all dark and feathery. No, in fact, I despise reading.
Um, really? I love reading. She says with a puzzled look.
Oh, it's nothing personal. He continues. I hate everything at the moment. Watermelon lipgloss, reading, small talk in overpriced pubs.
I snort and he glances at me out the corner of his eye. A business man seats himself a ways down the bar and watermelon girl excuses herself.
Wordlessly, he offers his bottle to me and, bewildered, I clink my lemonade against it.
We both let out little shy laughs, and he opens his book.
***
I have a name for him in my mind.
I like this chapter.
