The Kissing Booth

Every year on August 24th, the last day of the summer holidays for most of the children in the village, there was a carnival. Everybody in the village would attend. This year had the exact same rides and booths as last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. Loud, festive music boomed over speakers, children darted from here to there in a wild frenzy, smells of freshly barbecued food wafted through the air, the usual dank and dreary streets were adorned with stringed lights and ornaments. The carnival was a place for unrestrained joy. 

A little isolated from the rest of the booths and stalls was a flashy, hot pink board that bore the words, “Kissing Booth”, with a tagline underneath, “For all you single women!”. All the women in the village within the age limit of the booth, which was 14-40, were swarming in huge bunches at the entrance, each exchanging forced small talk about the carnival and the booth. 

“It’s going to start soon, isn’t it?” piped Miss Washington, a plump woman of 39 who would be attending the booth for the last time. Miss Amelia, a rather sweet woman of only 24 checked her watch, which showed the time 11:58 PM. 

“Two more minutes”, she answered. A young group of horny teenagers stood at the front of the queue, elevated with excitement. For most of them, this was only their first or second time coming. Daphne Cornwallis of only 14 was keeping up a particularly annoying stream of chatter, rambling on about how her sister and her mother had been coming to this exact booth before her and shared their experiences with it. 

At last, the clock struck 12, and the magnificent gates to the booth opened. The booth was located indoors, with vast, velvet curtains that blocked all the prying eyes of men and/or girls who were too young in the carnival. The small talk between the girls inside continued but eventually died down.

Old Mr. Walker who was the manager of the booth hobbled with the support of a walking stick up the stairs onto a miniature stage. He suffered from minor arthritis in his knees, but they had grown much stronger. He had been managing this booth for what seemed like almost millennia now, and even though in recent years people had told him to stop due to his knees, he had insisted on still being the manager.

The girls kept their distance from the stage. On top of the stage was the booth with another velvet curtain drawn around it. Also on the stage next to Mr. Walker was a large, intricately decorated box. He surveyed all the women in the crowd. There was no loud chatter coming from the audience anymore besides Daphne Cornwallis who was hiccuping loudly in the front. 

“Right then. Might as well get on with it,” said Mr. Walker. “You should know the drill ladies. Line up one by one, and get your slip from the box. Single file now!” 

And so, the women, pushing and shoving at one another managed to get into a single file line with eighteen-year-old Rose Geller at the front and Miss Washington at the back. The box was opened to reveal millions of pieces of shredded paper. One by one, each woman stepped up to pick a paper, and then hopped down from the stage, waiting. Each piece of paper was slightly battered and frail as if it had been folded many times, and then unfolded.

By this point in time, every ounce of chatter had been silenced. Everyone grabbed a peek at what was on their paper, then held it tightly to their chest so nobody else would see it. When every woman had collected their slip of paper, Mr. Walker hobbled back to the middle of the stage, almost losing a grip of his walking stick. 

“Alrighty then, we al’ picked our slips?” he drawled. There was a murmur of assent. 

“Well then,” he said, “let’s see who our lucky lady is this year, eh?” Just like that, the tension in the room thickened by tenfold with anticipation. Every girl and woman in the room waited with bated breath as Mr. Walker pulled out a slip of his own from his pocket. The loud hammering of hearts was heard in the silence. Mr. Walker raised his eyebrows before continuing. 

“Well folks, our lucky number this year is… 69413!” he croaked almost triumphantly. The tension thickened even more, as women opened their slips to double-check their numbers. Mr. Walker watched them through glassy eyes. 

“Come on up, lucky lady!” he yelled. “Reveal yourself. Don’ be shy!” Everyone looked around, trying to see if they could spot the victim. Whose heart was beating louder than everyone else’s? 

Suddenly, a voice yelled in the front row. 

“It’s Daphne! She has it!” 

Daphne Cornwallis’s face graduated to a beet red color. Girls around her snatched the slip from her. 

“It’s her! She has it!” they squealed, urging her forward. Daphne tried to resist, but now Mr. Walker had seen her and was beckoning her forward. The women around her clustered like bees, lifting her off her feet and planting her up on the stage. Daphne’s unwarranted excitement was suddenly replaced with quivering nervousness. Mr. Walker tottered towards her, taking her by the shoulder and moving with her towards the booth. 

“Don’ worry now. It’ll be very short. May even be the experience of a lifetime!” he said, chuckling. Daphne did not struggle against him, but her eyes were now filled with fear. Mr. Walker leaned in to whisper to her before she went inside the booth. 

“You’ll like the man we’ve picked out for you this year. A real chad, this ‘un.” Daphne gave one last fleeting glance at the audience before she disappeared behind the booth and the velvet curtain was drawn. 

Whispers gradually broke out again between the women outside, but all their eyes were transfixed on the shadows barely visible behind the curtain. 

“She was looking a tad nervous before she walked in, wasn’t she?” whispered Eleanor Lewis. 

“Serves her right,” countered Sita Rameshwaram. “Besides, she was the most excited out of all of us to come here in the beginning. She got what she wanted.” 

Over the chatter, the sound of a zipper being unzipped was sounded. The women stopped talking and listened intently to what was going on behind the curtain. 

“It’s starting!” cried out Miss Washington in the back. Once again, feelings of tension and anticipation loomed above everyone Daphne gave a small squeal inside the booth, audible to the audience’s ears. Then, her breathing grew heavy, as if she was scared. Women whispered. Mr. Walker was watching in the front row of the audience grimly. A moan was heard by an unfamiliar man’s voice. A few seconds passed. 

And then Daphne screamed. 

A fully naked Daphne ran out of the booth from behind the curtains, her face white and dumbstruck, staring at the audience. 

“I can’t do it!” she screamed. “I don’t want to! I don’t want to! 

Women began murmuring to one another in shock. Mr. Walker’s white eyebrows rose so high they almost disappeared in his tresses. He cleared his throat loudly. 

“If you refuse to do it, you know what will happen,” he remarked placidly 

Slowly, all the women in the room began to file up onto the stage. Daphne stood for a few moments in numbness, then retreated until she was pressed against the back of the stage. All the women edged closer towards her. Daphne shrieked, covering her face with her hands. 

“NO! DON’T HURT ME! IT’S NOT FAIR! DON’T TOUCH ME!” 

They grabbed her from the legs and hoisted her upwards, with her thrashing and writhing in their grips. Mr. Walker observed the scene with mild amusement. Daphne, behind all her fear, glared at Mr. Walker, who smiled back at her.  

“You know the consequences of those who refuse to abide by societal rituals, Miss Cornwallis,” he said calmly. 

“Now you have to suffer them.”