The Kiss Of Death

What a lovely evening to wander amongst the living. The gentle touch of the sun on my cheeks is soon to be gone as the pale moonlight is the ruler of the night. I picked up my pace, rushed not because I was late to my destination - perhaps I was even early - but rather due to my dislike of cold weather. It made it seem as if I were surrounded by shadows of myself, reminders of my harsh, hollow touch. But you don’t want to listen to an old man go on about his inescapable darkness.

It wasn’t long before I was standing outside his house’s door. A glance through the misty glass window was all it took for me to realize I was early, as the man was still hanging Christmas decorations all around his living room. I am to meet with him, not in another couple of hours. But it didn’t matter; he’s been waiting for me a long time, might as well get it over with sooner. After all, I was rarely ever on time. Once you become immortal you come to realize how the whole concept of it is just a meaningless illusion. I had a silver watch a while back, an attempt to keep track of it, but after I guided a little girl by the hand, in the Second Worst War for Humanity, I’ve never seen it again. She could have taken it as a comfort object in such a dark setting given the fact that her dad was spending all his time alive making clocks. I moved my palm on my right wrist, nostalgically, making a grinding sound as the bones rub each other. Or it could have just slipped from my arm into some dark street vent.

The loneliness of that moment was interrupted by the creaky noise of the door before me, opening and letting the figure of a man appear. He stared at me, not for long - but enough for me to reflect his expression - before inviting me inside. ‘‘It’s pretty cold outside and that ragged cloak won’t do much for ya.’’, he insisted when I told him I should better go. I finally gave in and found myself sitting near the fireplace with a glass of wine in my hand. He was sitting on the armchair next to mine, silent, enjoying the classical music that was playing in the background with his eyes gently shut. He looked so peaceful and relaxed for a man in his mid-30s with an undiagnosed disease that was killing him from the inside. His calmness angered me, but as the one stealing moments of his precious life, I felt the need to tell him something comforting, even though words had always been my weakest aspect.

‘‘You should know…’’, I started whispering with my trembling voice.

‘‘I know.’’, he stated with confidence.

‘‘But..’’

‘‘There’s no need to worry. It’s fine.’’, he continued and walked towards the vinyl player, repeating his last sentence once again, under his breath, as if he was trying to believe it himself.

He looked through his records and chose his favorite. A waltz. Pretentious. He finished his drink and started dancing alone.

‘‘Care to dance with me?’’, he asked me with a playful smirk on his face and his left hand leaning towards me, inviting me to hold it.

I grabbed it, with some hesitation, but he pulled me closer before I could give it a second thought. He placed my hand on his waist, put his own on my shoulder, and held my spare hand in his. At first, I found it tedious, but as I got used to him, he seemed bearable and maybe even fun. I could tell he loved dancing. And talking about it perhaps even more. A few drinks later, words flew out his mouth with such elegance and passion, it made his grey eyes shine and his cheeks turn red - to the latter had also contributed the wine, which he was not willing to put down.

We spent half of the night dancing and drinking and stopped only to catch our breath. The more he drank, the more he talked about anything with such excitement and the more he raved about the simplest and the most complex beauties of life, the more I would smile like a fool, fascinated by him. Around midnight he poured in my glass the last sip of the second bottle of wine.

‘‘Are you drunk?’’, he asked while wiping sweat from his face. His hair, dark and curly, laid on his forehead intact, raising the doubt of whether this evening was even real.

‘‘No. Are you?’’

‘‘No. Wait for me.’’, he said and dashed to another room.

The time I was alone I wandered around the place, trying not to smear the red wine drops on the carpet that now looked like fresh blood. His house was simple, but it appeared otherworldly. Sadly, I was brought back to reality as I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. This was a mistake, I was spending too much time with him. What was I even doing? I didn’t belong here. What is the dead doing amongst the living? This is absurd! Spending time with my next victim? How could I have made such an idiotic mistake? Just as I sat on the couch flooded with conflicted thoughts, he walked in holding a big stack of paper in his arms. He sat right next to me and after a quick prologue, he started reading his poetry to me. I should have left, but it was so beautifully breathtaking, I seemed unable to move at all. He captivated me with poems about life, death, freedom; for a moment I completely forgot my previous urge to leave. A moment that lasted hours.

‘‘The next one has the title ‘Strangers to Lovers’. Brace yourself it’s a long one’’, were the words that shook me harshly back to reality, making me realize the even worse truth. No. I didn’t want to believe it, but… It can’t be! You hear it happening to others, foolish romantics, naive amateurs, but how could it happen to me? Yet... it makes perfect sense. When I am with him, when he looks at me with those bright eyes it’s almost like I can feel again. It almost feels like I’m something more than the rotting remains of the man I once was. But I couldn’t allow it!

‘‘Are you alright? You’re sweating.’’, he said while pulling his sleeve over his hand and softly touching my forehead.

‘‘I should go.’’

I stood up and headed for the door. I didn’t have the strength to look at him again. I would probably ask for someone else to do what I couldn’t when the time was right.

‘‘Can’t you stay a bit longer?’’

‘‘No, I can’t.’’

‘‘Don’t you want to?’’

He approached me and was now holding the door shut in front of me, standing like a barrier between me and my way out. His eyes were begging me to stay. He placed his hand on my cheek. It was warm. I covered it with my freezing one.

‘‘I’m not afraid of dying.’’

I pulled my hand from his and walked back to the living room. I could use another drink.

‘‘You should be.’’

‘‘Why? Because you’re afraid of living?’’

A long pause followed his daring words. The empty glass slipped my hand and landed on the carpet without breaking.

‘‘The dead don’t live.’’

‘‘Then how come the living die?’’

The conversation kept going back and forth. It didn’t matter what we were saying - poetic quotes or nonsense words, I couldn’t tell the difference anyway - each one’s intentions were clear. He was too scared to face death alone and I was too afraid of living again. He wanted me to stay. I knew it wasn’t right, I knew I had to go, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to leave. I wanted to stay too.

He was looking right at me. Waiting for my reply to his words. Although I didn’t hear them, I knew what they were. I didn’t move, I didn’t talk, I barely smiled as I enjoyed the moment. Two men standing before each other. Two souls between life and death, freed from the restraints of who they were supposed to be. With my hand, I stroked his hair and once the surprise on his face was replaced by a shy smile and blushed cheeks, I, softly, pulled his chin towards me. Our eyes closed, our lips touched, our hearts melted. And the most exciting part of it all: I could feel again! I could feel his tender touch as he moved his hands on my skin, as he ran his fingers through my hair. I wasn’t fooled, I knew it wasn’t real. I was nothing more than a ghost that was seen for the first time. Touch deprived, felt at last.

If only I could capture this moment, I would seal it and keep it in my chest pocket forever. It was perfect. No other word can describe it, and I’m afraid this one can’t either. I didn’t want it to end. But this is what happens when time is chasing you. It always catches you. We laid next to each other, covered in white sheets. He was nervous. I held his hand in mine and kissed it.

 ‘‘It’ll all be over soon.’’

He smiled at me and kissed me passionately. Once I opened my eyes, his grey ones were staring into the void. Still. Dead. Blood was coming through his nose and eyes staining the pillows. I stood up. It was time I did what I had to. As I leaned above him to close his eyes, I heard a metal sound. I found it under his left hand. A pocket clock. Broken only a few seconds ago, marking the time of our last kiss. I did my job quickly - it wasn’t easy seeing him like that. As I was about to go, I placed the clock in the pocket next to where my beating heart was last night.

Was all this worth a broken pocket clock?