Dry Lips Kiss

As a spectacular, high summer holiday sunset splashed red across the sky, a glockenspiel-version of their joint favourite Ramones’ song played out from speakers, atop the departing ice cream van. However, already all was not as well as appearances might suggest, evidenced moments earlier outside the door to number 12A, Fulchester Lane.

Tom was no fool and had read a significance into their most recent kiss. If honest with himself, it’d begun to bug his brain. Managing only to poke his tongue into Brooklyn’s mouth for but a brief second or two, their dry lips parted, leaving him momentarily lost for words and uncertain what exactly to say next.

“You’ve been kind of quiet most of the evening, love. Is anything wrong?”

Brooklyn, her soul racked with worry regarding a sudden change of heart on her part, found she couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead, she rested her gaze upon a piece of lint positioned seemingly equidistant between shoulder and elbow, embedded into the lightweight fabric of the pullover he wore.

“N – No, it’s just that I’m a bit tired… ” she hesitated, buying time to concoct a creditable sentence extension to her reply, “and it’s late. I’d better go in now, Tom.”

Intuition hit him hard in the guts. He knew he had to say something now, which would guarantee their future together, forever. Tom could feel Brooklyn begin to break away from the lover’s embrace. In response, his grip around her waist appeared to tighten all by itself.

“Brooklyn, I know it’s been like only six hours since we first ever met. But, it feels like we’ve known each other for over six thousand years!” His emotions began to well-up unexpectedly. A dampness formed in the corner of each eye, followed by a blurring of vision and a sudden anaphylactic loss of breath.

“B-B-Brooklyn,” he stammered, “babe, which flavour ice cream did you just have?” He spluttered and coughed as his
fingers fumbled around for something he always carried with him in the back pocket of his chinos.

“My favourite, spumone, why?” Brooklyn could feel Tom’s weight leaning against her, his legs gradually giving up one of their primary functions.

“Spumone?” The normal colour of Tom’s face drained, “You mean cherry, chocolate and pistachio?”

©Brinkinfield “Ekphrasis Story Series”

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