A Crying Kiss

Shards of glass sit on my palm. They embed themselves deeper every time I move. Darkness wraps around us. Not a single candle remains lit. My eyes can no longer make out his silhouette, but he’s here. I don’t have to see him to know that. The creak of a floorboard, that loose one by the kitchen. Then, his pace quickens. As he nears me, his hands reach awkwardly for me. They flail about rampantly, dreading the thought of my absence. His fingers graze my forearm, sending chills up my arm and throughout my entire body. A shudder grabs me and shakes me for a moment. 

“It’s me,” He says, his voice breathy. 

I swallow hard. “Are you wearing shoes?” I ask. 

He seizes my wrist, pulling me to him. 

“Am I wearing shoes?” He echoes, as if to say, how can you be saying such a thing in a moment like this? 

“The glass, Colt. There’s glass everywhere.” 

His stare drops to the floor. Surely he can’t see a thing, but he must be squinting impossibly hard to catch a glimpse of the mess. God, he better have shoes on. 

In momentary silence, I force the words out. “Are you wearing shoes, Colt?” 

He palps for my hand. When he grips it hard, I swear every single nerve in my body comes to life. 

A yelp slips out of me. 

“What is it?” He breathes, using both of his hands to cradle mine. 

“The glass. How about those shoes?” 

His sole taps the wooden floorboards. He's wearing loafers. “I have shoes on, June.” 

The breeze crawls through the gaps in the wall. There used to be glass there. Our windows shielded us from the chaos unraveling outside. We’d be foolish to think we’d escape this. Like moths to a flame, they couldn’t resist. They tore through our place in minutes. Colt was still on his way home from work. 

They took all the light with them and left us blind. 

“We need to wrap this up,” He says, his hands still on mine. 

I can’t move. My heels are crushing bits of glass. I’ve been standing in this exact position for years. It feels like years. But I can’t move.

“Don’t move. There’s glass—”

“Everywhere. I know,” He says. “But you’re gonna bleed to death if I don’t do something.” 

He lowers my hand, his touch vanishing. 

“What are you doing?” I ask. 

“My shirt, June. I’m undoing my shirt.” 

“Why?” I say. 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts bandaging the gash and holds it there. He’s shirtless, right in front of me. I still can’t see a thing. My shins are cramming. I’d kill to sit down. 

“Am I dying, Colt?” 

He leans closer, draping his free arm over my hip and speaking into my hair. “Not if I can help it.” 

I swear I can hear him smiling. He’s hopeful like that. 

“Tell me about your day, honey,” He says. 

I rest my head on his shoulder. “I need to sit down. I can’t feel my legs,” I tell him. 

A titter. Just the ghost of a chuckle leaves him. 

“Then we’ll sit,” He says. 

I want to touch his face. The stubble on his chin, the blush on his cheeks, the freckles crowding his nose. But I can’t. They stole every glimmer of light hidden in our home. 

“The glass. You’ll get hurt,” I say. 

“I’ll take my chances.” 

The breeze snakes around my back and slithers around me. There’s that shudder again. “I can’t move, Colt.” 

“I’ll help you down,” He says. 

And he does. He reaches for my free hand, grappling at my shirt because it’s pitch black all around us, and helps me to my knees. There goes the glass again. I hiss.

 “I know it hurts, honey. I’m trying to get you on my lap,” He says. 

And he does. And it’s still my favorite place in the entire world. No other thing comes even close to Colt Wren’s lap.

There’s a lump well-settled in my throat. It’s like a fuzz ball I can’t push down. If the tears came, they went unnoticed. 

“I missed you at work today,” He says. His shirt is tied into a knot on my palm. His hands rest on my thighs. They must be soaked with blood at this point. My arm brushes his bare chest. 

“I missed this chest,” I say, aching to kiss it, touch it, and cling to it. 

A snicker escapes him. “I should’ve stayed home,” He says. 

“Let’s just,” I start, attempting to find my strength. “I love it when you talk. You talk, I’ll listen.” 

“I need you to keep talking to me here, June.” 

The glass is a part of my anatomy now. It tweaks with every inhale. My lungs weigh tons. Lead, that’s what they feel like. 

His kiss steals my last breath. It stretches for a full minute and leaves it lingering in the air, tethered to an invisible string. He grabs my face, pulls his lips to mine, and manages to say all the words he couldn’t fit enough of in our timeline. 

I love it when you wake me up in the middle of the night and tell me about your disastrous dreams, 

I love it when you wear nothing but bed sheets, 

I love it when you shove the pasta in your mouth like a maniac, 

I love it when you mouth off and put me in my place, 

I love it so much when you read to me and snuggle beside me, 

I love your whispered promises, 

I love it when you bunch up your dress in your fists when you dance, 

I love you, June,

I love you, 

I love you,

I love you.  

The kiss is wet and slippery and not at all graceful, but it is so glorious we could not care less about such a thing. This kiss could move mountains, stop the earth’s rotation and have it hanging on its axis, cure deathly affairs, salvage broken relationships, pave the way to life-altering discoveries. This kiss is bliss, ruin, rage, and every emotion deep inside us all at once. It has a life of its own; it envelops us and keeps us warm in its embrace. 

And like every sweet melody, it leaves us a memory stronger than life and death itself before it slips away from us and bids us goodbye. 

Breathless, grieving, and empty. 

This is how they find us. 

My lifeless body next to Colt’s, his tears dampening my face.