It all started with a kiss, but doesn’t it always. There’s lots of different kinds of kisses, like a hurried kiss or a slow kiss, a kiss hello or a kiss goodbye, a passionate kiss or a dispassionate kiss, a sweet kiss or an angry kiss. A wet, sloppy kiss or a kiss of death. I’m not sure what kind of kiss it was. I think it was probably a hopeful kiss more than anything, if there is such a thing. Maybe a blind kiss of idiocy is closer to the truth. Like I said there are all kinds of kisses. The kiss I remember seems to oscillate between various incarnations, like it may have been every type of kiss at the same time. And just as it was the beginning, so was it the end.
I suppose there were promises involved, implied though mostly unspoken. Promises I made to myself, promises I made to others, promises others made to me. If you understand the power of the kiss then you’ll also understand that the restorative values of the kiss walk hand in hand with the destructive powers of the kiss. Two sides of the same coin. I just thought that things might turn out different. A frog is a prince is a frog. No matter what there will always be some frog left in there somewhere, and a little frog goes a long way. Happily ever after doesn’t always turn out that way. That’s not how every fairy tale ends.
He wasn’t a frog anymore, but he was definitely no prince. I was convinced that if I kept kissing him he would turn centimeter by centimeter into a prince eventually. Or maybe just turn back into a frog and hop back into the swamp he came from. The kiss continued like the bad dream I’m convinced it became. Each kiss was every type of kiss all rolled into one, and every time I ended up tasting the bitter twinge of disappointment, stuck in limbo between amphibian and prince. And with every kiss something changed, though I’m not sure if it was him or me.
For Valentine’s Day he gave me flowers and a box of chocolate worms. He kissed me and caught a fly that was buzzing around the room. I realized there would always be a little bit of frog left no matter how many times I kissed him, and I think I was finally able to accept it. We ate the worms and shared a few more kisses, and then a lot more. But it wasn’t until I gave birth to tadpoles nine months later that the truth of the situation sunk in.
That kiss was the biggest mistake of my life.
A Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge: My Funny Valentine?
Kiss me (by aftab.)