Kissing like Fools in the Rain

Kissing like Fools in the Rain

a love story

By Wendy O'Connell

Real love is cement. This is our story. Standing in the rain, kissing like fools. Raindrops on your face, an eerie pale shaken face unafraid of the words: I love you. You said the words instantly. I only felt them. Kissing you was like melting in warm chocolate-tasting sugar, your tongue on my lips absorbing me like the crusted buttery edges of a creamy dessert. I welcomed the warm throbbing feelings in my bloodstream, unlike the first time I French kissed, which made me quite sick. I loved you and felt your kiss in every molecule of who I knew of myself. 

You were always warm and inviting, finding me desirable in a way I'd never wanted. Barnes and Noble fell behind us, my silver Ford escort behind me, and your blue Nissan not three feet behind you. We stood in between, two creatures in a sea of silver and cerulean blue, swimming without air and willing to die if it meant stopping our kiss. The rain came at us not in a downpour but in soft pitter patterns, baby steps, luring us into its mystery and unforgettable light and darkness, warning us to stop. Of course, we didn't.

16 years later

I know you fell in love with me, too. So what do I do now? We are different, you and I, but we are the same. We're in Harris Teeter, a grocery like many in the U.S. The lights are bright and fluorescent. There are no shadows to hide in, especially not one's age. Who wants to run into an old lover 16 years later in black Galaxy pajama bottoms, a light blue terry cloth banana-colored toboggan wearing zip for makeup with wet, partially colored, and discolored red toes sponged sloshing in grey flip-flops way too big? 

"Hi," you say. Your eyes are vast, and then you smile.

"I, uh, thought you lived in Greensboro." Your face is still pale, deathly white. 

"Moved to the Beach three years ago. It's a small place, and I'm surprised we've never encountered each other." I'm talking fast, too fast.

"Me, too." He caresses his jawline with his fingertips, and a memory floods into view—one so red velvety I blush. When we were together, I knew he had never longed for anyone but me.

"You've got that same beautiful smile." He looks away. His shyness comes back to me, so familiar and attractive. 

"And you have that same," I cough into my hand. "And you've got that same weak jawline." I'm trying to be mean. I could be afraid.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." He narrows his eyes at me—dark black ebony pools of soul oceans. But knowing the guy is married is a total turnoff. I checked. Don't we all look up old flames every so often? His marriage seems good, not like before. Suddenly, what I used to find sexy seems repulsive. He's flirting with me. Still, the cheating thing you couldn't get past it. Once there. It's like the plague. I'd never be able to trust him. I glance down and then at the grocery basket in his hand. It's red, and the oranges and mangos make up a monochromatic blend.

"Staying healthy," I say. Trying to ignore his remark about my smile.

"Well, you know, I try to stay fit." He pats his belly. There is a slight paunch, but nothing I could call fat. But hey, I get the macho thing, but it's overrated. 

"You know I waited so long on you that night," I say, remembering my draw to him—his breath on my neck, hot in my ears. Again, I blushed. 

"I didn't think you'd be there." He steps forward to me. He smiles like he, too, sees my memory. "It's pouring outside," says he. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I stare at his mouth as he forms the Dums in Dadums with a particular emphasis that tastes like a dark merlot. I can taste his lips on mine, sharp, icy spearmint and lava heat. 

"Do you have everything you need?" he asks.

I look at my basket, red with a gallon of milk, blueberries, tangerines, and bananas. "I think so."

"Let's check out together," he says,

"Ok," I say.

The lines were short, and we got in parallel lines. You kept looking over at me in line. I'm getting bread, coffee, and ice cream. I remember you used to look at me at work. I had these light brown pants, like loose leggings, a turtle neck sweater, dark brown, and light brown. You'd come up behind me, standing close. We seemed like the only two people in the universe. Your breath on my neck when you whispered prepare to be smacked. Kissed, you meant. We'd been kissing. This would not be the first time we kissed, but it would be the last time we only kissed. We should have stopped. We were both married. Wedged between our cars, only our lips touching, rain failing on us in whispers. Soon we were there. In front of Barnes and Noble, wedged between our tongues, hot, moist, feeling only what the other felt for if for a moment. This is something we share. This love. This bond. And so we meet 16 years later, in a busy parking lot. We finished checking out, and I followed you with my dangling plastic bags. A warm, romantic feeling flooded me alongside dark foreboding. Still, we both dared the world not to let us have this moment like before. What we felt trumped all others' feelings.

"I've got that," he says. "Where are you parked?"

I nod to the left, walking amid the rain. My car, still silver, is a Toyota, more reliable. He follows me, and I pop the trunk. He puts my groceries in, and I shut and lock the car. His face is so familiar to me that it makes my heart ache. 

"Are you ready?" he says.

I nod and follow him. He's dressed in dull black pants and a white button-down long-sleeve shirt. The rain makes his shirt cling to him, and parts of his back and chest are full of dark, curly black hair. I remember lying in it. I follow like a puppy. He's parked only one row over from my car, but he's further towards the back of the parking lot, which is darker and more discrete. When we reach his car, a light blue Nisan, he puts his groceries in the trunk. I thought we'd stand there dumbly, but he instantly grabbed me and pulled me close to his body. He pushes my head against his chest, and my arms hang loosely, but he pulls them around him, presses his lips to my neck, and his hands explore my back, stopping on my hips. He pulls back. "It's just a kiss, right?"

"Yes," I say. "We're only smacking."

He grins, and then his lips are on me, and a sixteen-year-old love is rekindled, starting like a flicker, then a flame. He's all over me, on my lips, down my neck, his hands caressing my breast, his hardness against my middle, and then suddenly he pulls away from me.

"Let's stop here."

He's right. It was true. A spiritualist told his mom that we should not get too involved right then; wait and be faithful. Stupidly, neither of us listened. 

"Let's stop here," I agree.

"Remember the rain." 

"Always." 

"I'll walk you back."

He walks me back and opens my car door. I don't look at him; I only get in and shut the door swiftly. The rain is coming down harder. He leaves. I watch him until he is in his car, and he pulls away. The rain beats on and on, a dream unrealistic to one that can attest to your humanity. People have a little space together. This is all, and then we move on, sometimes listening to waves beating against the shoreline. I start my car and move on towards my present and future, no longer clinging to my past.