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A Kiss on the Moon

February 12, 2015

He walked in having changed into a dress shirt. I think I had made him promise we might go out later. He had a book bag with the wine in it. He told me about asking for the Santa Claus guy and how he had patted him on the back like he did a good job. He pulled out the Bouza Tannat and a bottle of white. I asked him if he wanted to make cookies.

“Not yet,” he said.

We opened the six-seed- grape wine. I sipped. He gulped. It still amazed me how he drank. It contradicted what I thought I knew about Middle Eastern culture. Which I suppose is not much. We talked and drank and talked and drank. As the level of the red wine dropped lower and lower in the green bottle the space between us on my crappy little coach got smaller.

I had felt rejected by him. I asked him if he were free, if he would be interested in me.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. There’s something….” he left the sentence unfinished.

“Something, what?” I asked.

“There’s something,” he said looking at me in the eyes.

We stared at each other between the space on the couch. He looked at me and broke into a weird little smile that made me smile in return.

It was the connection that was missing with BR Guy. I couldn’t smile at him like that. There are some things that can’t be forced or helped.

“How do you know when you’ve gone from liking someone to loving someone?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, “I guess you just know.”

I thought about the movie Moonstruck and the scene where Ronny convinces Loretta to go inside with him. What was that speech he gave?

“Loretta, I love you. Not like they told you love is, and I didn’t know this either, but love don’t make things nice – it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren’t here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. The storybooks are bullshit.”

He invited me to see Iran. A suggestion at once ridiculous, unbelievable and enticing. I didn’t take him seriously. He scoffed at my suspicion. “If I was in Iran and an American offered to host me and show me around, I would go in a heartbeat. As long as you don’t lose your passport, you’ll be fine,” he laughed at me. I liked the idea of being crazy enough to run away with a stranger to his home town in Iran. But, I’m not that crazy.

“Let’s switch to the white,” I said. “We have to save the red for the cookies. There’s nothing better than red wine with chocolate chip cookies.”

I got up to start mixing the batter. I pulled out the card with my recipe on it, littered with caked flour and splashes of ingredients. I found my measuring cup and we began reading off ingredients, taking turns stirring while sipping white wine. He called me a control freak. I fussed at him when he did things wrong.

It was the most fun I’ve had with anyone in a long time.

In the small kitchen we bumped into each other. He put his arm around me. We hugged. I put my head on his shoulder avoiding his face.

We put the first batch in and sat back down.

When did he touch my hair? He touched my hair, amazed at it’s softness. Or he was just that good. I love the feeling of someone’s hand in my hair. The feeling was overwhelming. I closed my eyes and let him touch my hair, my head.

We were drunk.

The smell of overcooking cookies wafted the short distance from the stove to the sofa, despite the timer not having gone off. I jumped up and took the cookies out. I looked at the time. I turned the temperature lower and adjusted the cooking time, making notes on my recipe card. They were overcooked. I hadn’t gotten the right formula of heat and time for my tiny oven.

IMG_0624We set up another batch and put them in the oven. Six minutes later, I pulled out a batch of the world’s most perfect chocolate chip cookies. I pulled one off the sheet and took a bite. “Oh my God, these are amazing!” I said as I sipped red wine after swallowing the magnificent piece of cookie. I thought about the movie, Like Water for Chocolate. How the food reflected the emotions put into the cooking.

We finished baking the rest of the batter.

He asked me to dance with him. I tried to teach him to two-step and came a little too close to him as I showed him the waltz. He was shy but I could tell that there was a natural dancer in there somewhere. We sat down again.

He played with my shoes, tying my laces together. He was close to me. He told me to drink the rest of the wine in my glass and took it from me, putting it on the coffee table. Then he swung around and put his head on my lap.

The greyness of the ethical grey area was getting darker. I’ve got to stay away from that damned Tannat wine.

“That’s better,” he said. Bastard.

I looked down at his grey-speckled hair. I put my hand on his head. I touched his hair. I ran my fingers through his hair. He talked.

When did I end up with his hand in mine? When did he take my hand and kiss it? When did he ask me if I wanted to kiss him? When did he put his forehead on mine and tell me he wanted to feel like someone cared about him? When did I put my hand on his face?

When he raised his chin up our lips touched ever so slightly, waiting for one of us to leap out of the grey area and into the safe, white light of the morality we claimed to share. Neither of us did. We kissed. Not passionately. Not freely. Gingerly, like thieves stealing a jewel from a case filled with laser beams, ever so careful not to set one off.

Then we stopped and looked at each other. It was late. We had a lot to drink. It was time for this little charade to end.

I told him I needed to sleep. He held me again and left.

I fell asleep thinking, At least I got to kiss him. 



From → Rantings

One Comment
  1. That man has a lot of self control!

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