Tag Archives: kiss

Cinnamon Toast and Tongue Kisses

Two recent conversations with the Small Boy:

Not too long ago we were getting ready for breakfast, still in our jammies.

“What would you like for breakfast, lovey?”
“Cim-nim Rolls.”

Here, he means Pillsbury, from the can, not to be confused with my Sticky Buns, which are a work of culinary art and a one way ticket to clogged arterial bliss.

“We don’t have Cinnamon Rolls, baby. But I could make you cinnamon toast.”

At which point he looked at me as if I had perhaps suggested he stand on his head. So, I explained cinnamon toast.

“I would like that,” he says.
“If you don’t like it, I’ll eat it,” I offer.
“You can make your own,” he replies.

Oh, can I?

Another night we were out for Japanese, followed by a stop at Ben & Jerry’s on the way home (sushi followed by ice cream has long been a part of the language of our little family). In line at the scoop shop, I’m holding Felix up to see the flavors, and he looks at me, sticks his tongue out as far as it will go, wiggles it, and says, full voice, “Let’s do tongue kisses!”

I was laughing too hard to finish the ice cream order.

We’ve been doing nose, or Eskimo, kisses lately, and I guess in the average three-year old brain, it’s not that far of a leap from lips and noses to tongues, but good grief! Why does he always say stuff like this when we’re out in public?

The Beginning of Everything

Carmen was playing on Boston Common.

Opera under the summer sky. I wanted to go. I invited him. We were new to each other. A few weeks of phone calls, emails, a first date that left me unsure. I liked him, but was that enough? I wasn’t prepared to release him back to the dating pool, but neither was I willing to dare myself to open up to the idea of him.

Looking back, I think my subconscious knew. Trust your gut. But at twenty-five you don’t always do that, especially where men are concerned.

I worked two blocks from the Common in those days, he lived a T stop away over the bridge. That much I knew, but we had only seen in each other in public space. Movie theatres, restaurants, bars.

He met me at work. He had a picnic and a blanket. I remained calm, but my insides swooned. Baguette, paté, cheese, but I was careful about what I ate. Later he would say that he wondered if I didn’t like the offerings. Au contraire.

We sat through the performance, we ate, we talked a little during the intermission. As we packed up to leave, I realized my cell phone was missing.

He crawled around in the grass looking for it, but it was gone. Not in my bag, not on the blanket, not in the grass. Gone.

In those days, losing my StarTac was like losing an iPhone.

I was a mess. I couldn’t afford a new one, and again, in those days, someone else having my phone meant extra minutes and charges and oh, god…

“Let me buy you a drink,” he offered. I was a mess.

We took the train back to his stop, me fretting the entire time about the damn phone. We got drinks at a bar neither of us liked because it was there.

“Let me drive you home,” he offered.

A quandary, because I wasn’t ready to say, invite him in. I didn’t want to make him go out of his way, to make him lose his parking spot–so coveted in his neighborhood of more care than parking spots. And did I mention I had friends sleeping on my air mattress in the living room?

I explained these things awkwardly.

“Let me drive you home,” he insisted.

He drove me home in his grubby pick-up truck. He stopped outside my apartment, idling in the narrow road, while I fidgeted and fussed with my bag.

I don’t even remember what I said just before he kissed me.

Which didn’t matter, since after he kissed me was the beginning of everything.

Mama's Losin' It4.) A memorable date.

A December Thing

The room was high-ceilinged and wide, rows like a cornfield, chest-high, stocked with wines, beers, ciders, spirits. Imagine, if you will, the heart of Grand Central Station, in a smaller scale, with a liquor store inside.

And there I was, at the end of a row, seated on the floor, legs out to one side, knees curled like a prawn, resting my head on my arms on a short, round, mango-wood stool, watching. Envy and misery in equal parts behind my eyes as I saw them all lined up around the outer wall of the great room. And then they began to sing, as I knew they would, leaving me there, uninvited and unincluded.

When he sat on the stool behind me, I felt more than heard him. I was acutely aware of him. Young, blond, fair, perhaps nineteen to my twenty-two. He put his hands on my slumped shoulders, pulled me back against his shins. He leaned down close, and didn’t speak the question I knew he was asking.

“I’m a singer, too, you know,” I said.

He drew his smooth cheek against mine, tilting my head back so I could see his face.

“I have a December thing going on here,” he said, just before he kissed me.

His lips were soft, the kiss insubstantial, a whisper shared.