All of the Cherry Red Marks

My Beautiful Nicole,

One thing you should know is this: every single time your soft lips have left those delightful cherry red marks all over my skin, you’ve also marked my heart indelibly. 

Why yes, ma chouchoute, your kisses have carved their way into the inner recesses of my mind. From the first moment you broke into that moonglow smile as your ‘hello’ wrapped me into its velvet arms, I knew that I will always crave for those bright stains on my face and my clothing. It’s gotten to a point that even when you aren’t around, all that replays in my head is you softly cupping my cheeks and that painted mouth hungrily devouring mine.

You know how long I’ve waited for even just one of those traces. In those days we chased each other to the métro station heading to school, your glossy mahogany waves gathered up in a vermillion silk bow, everything I wanted was for you to turn to me, beam as brightly as the April sun, slowly tilt your head towards me, and press a gentle smooch. For four years, as we strolled around the Parc Cilchy-Batiggnolles, my mind cycled images of you and I and the world that faded into magenta as we lost ourselves in each other. 

One day, we were sprawled out on a blue and white checkered picnic blanket, gold noontime rays streaming on us. You were buried in your copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’ when I accidentally brushed my hand on your delicate one trying to reach for a glass. Then, the miracle: I observed you put down your copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’ and grin. Beyond the brightness of midday, the gleam in your emerald gaze burnt through every doubt, projected that slide show of possibility with you. In a blink, I felt the gossamer touch of your lips on mine and everything dissolved into the most colourful fireworks. In that instance, my senses could only process the magic of the last couple of seconds. All of a sudden, I heard you gasp.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Christophe,’ you murmured. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

I followed your regard to two large, bow-shaped imprints on the collar of my white shirt. Against the pristine background, they were bold, fiery…. just like the passion burning in your jade eyes.

Without even thinking, I closed the gap between us and greedily feasted on that maraschino-flavoured wax, on you.

‘What if I want all of the cherry red marks,’ I responded, a sheepish grin creeping on my countenance.

Until now, it’s all I desire.

I want the cherry red mark of our first dinner date. Do you remember how nervous I was on that balmy June night? As I waited seated on the same cobalt blue sofa I’d slumped on reading next to you a million times, I could have melted into the cushions. Just like that, the marigold wallpaper of your familiar living room seemed to swallow me whole. All the nerves, however, dissipated as soon as you came down the stairs, a vision in currant, and enveloped me in your arms. I was just letting your rose perfume infuse every molecule of oxygen I inhaled when you planted a little peck on my cheek, just enough to send lightning bolts to my heart. Nicole, if I could go back in time to collect that kiss, I would.

I want the cherry red marks of that holiday we took in Antibes for our first anniversary as a couple. Oh, how could I forget your joyous tears when I removed your blindfold in the car and you marvelled at the vast expanse of beach before you, just as your friends told me you wanted to see. Ma chouchoute, not even the clear maritime skies or the sapphire Mediterranean could shine as bright as you that weekend. As we strolled through the old town, you insisted on sitting by a café facing the sea. Little did I know, you would pull out a small watercolour of me from your trusty chocolate brown satchel, take my left hand and pepper it with scarlet. Nicole, if I could go back in time to collect those kisses, I would.

I want the cherry red mark of me becoming your husband. Have I told you how there was a tempest inside of me as I was waiting for you at the altar? I shook, thoughts about how a friendship sown in secondary school bloomed into a love so fragrant, it pervaded in every crevice of my consciousness. Five minutes after the wedding was due to start, you still hadn’t walked down the aisle and I couldn’t help panicking. What if you changed your mind? But the greys of that existence without you were splashed with a rainbow of joy the moment I looked at you in that delectable white lace gown. When you reached me, you quietly apologised for having had to reapply your lipstick before heading to the synagogue. None of that mattered, though, as I was swept away in the russet rivers of my affection for you. None of that mattered when I was given the signal to seal my commitment to you on that crimson mouth. Nicole, if I could go back in time to collect that kiss, I would.

I want the cherry red mark of us becoming a family. As your belly became fuller and fuller, you recounted more and more those riverside dinner dates where we imagined our children, our now at the moment. When the time came, I held your hand tenderly as you bore down. Then, our little Joséphine saw the light of day and smiled at us. We held her, a little rosebud with your brilliant gemstone eyes and my auburn hair, and instantly, we were encased in the warm glow of completion. I was cocooning our little girl in my arms when I felt the powerful electricity of a smooch on my nape. Nicole, if I could go back in time to collect that kiss, I would.

So many glittering moments in time punctuated by those cherry red marks, little ruby nuggets that shine in the deepest trenches of my memory. More than that, those imprints were a fire that fuelled me to continue in the harsh blackness.

I want the cherry red marks of the days they made us wear those large yellow stars. I can’t help recalling the day we, Parisians from birth, became ‘other’. Suddenly, the little shops on the rue des Apennins we’d once window shopped together barricaded their doors to us, all because of the blood on our veins. In a wink, my bookstore was seized by officials speaking a language different than ours simply because of that fabric patch our people was forced to pin to our coats, Every single time you saw the crystalline drops streak across my face, you would entwine your fingers in my curls and brush your lips on mine. Nicole, if I could go back in time to collect those kisses, I would.

I want the cherry red mark of the night they corralled us into a windowless train cabin out of France. As much as I try to erase it from my brain, I couldn’t quite escape images of those black-clad guards bursting through the door and dragging us to lorries where you, our daughter, and I were packed with others like sardines. When they pushed us into those glorified crates, it was an even tighter squeeze of siren-like wails, blood-streaked stares into nothingness, and despair. The moment the corner of my eyes started to prickle with saline drops, you pressed that tender mouth onto my forehead and whispered ‘It will be okay’. Nicole, if I could go back in time to collect those kisses, I would.

I want the cherry red mark on the lily-white handkerchief you snuck into my pocket before our people were separated amongst men, women, and children. I want the cherry red marks in the theatre of my remembrance that constantly reenacted the myriad of times we swayed in each other’s arms to the brassy sounds of jazz. A year of red marks, I desire them all…especially now.

As I lie down on a thin, rickety cot in the camp’s infirmary, my lungs filled with pus rendering my last breaths torturous, my thoughts turn to you — the woman who colours my world in the most brilliant scarlet, my soulmate who left me three months ago. The only thing I ask of you, my Nicole, is to welcome me up where you are with all of the cherry red marks. I will be waiting. 

Forever imprinted with your love,

Your Christophe