THE KISS

A MirAndy vignette

By Gun Brooke

"How dare you?" I never thought I'd use those words, or that furious tone, against Andrea. I have made her cry before, but that was impersonal and all about Runway. This is about her audacity and very personal, and we're in my kitchen on a Friday evening.

"Miranda?" Her lips are damp and slightly parted. Full and naturally red, they are one of her best features, next to her dark golden eyes. "I thought…I was so sure…I'm an idiot…"

"Why would you do that?" I ask her, loathing how weak I sound. "Have you lost all control over your faculties?"

"Something like that," she whispers and covers her mouth with trembling fingertips. "It's clear I misunderstood."

"Well? I think you owe me an apology and an explanation." I point at one of the stools at my kitchen island. "Sit."

Andrea's color goes from chalk white to crimson within seconds. "An apology? she says threateningly. "The way you have been acting the last few weeks, you think you deserve and apology?"

"Obviously." I do my best to act my usual regal self, but honestly, she has created enormous, cresting waves within my chest, and I can hardly breathe. I want to crush her. Blacklist her for all eternity and drive her away from New York back to Ohio, once and for all. The outrageous, uncomfortable truth is that Andrea Sachs intimidates me, and people have gone on list of who I want to toss from my office window for much lesser offences than that.

Glaring at me now, Andrea sits down. Her brow furrows more as she studies me. "You look flustered. You need to sit down more than I do. Here." She uses one of her Jimmy Choo clad feet and pushes another stool against me, patting it. "Sit."

Only the fact that my knees are trembling enough for my own heels to slip on the checkered kitchen tile floor, convinces me to sit instead of throttling her. I can do that sitting down if I have to.

"Now," Andrea says in an understanding tone that makes me feel even worse. "Tell me why this freaks you out so badly."

"Andrea. Don't even go there. Just...don't." My throat hurts from forcing back the words I really want to say. I want to tell her how I can't regard her audacity as anything but cruel. I can feel the mounting anger simmering in every part of my body. Mixing this rage with the all-encompassing desire she awakens in me is dangerous—for her, and for me. How will I ever be able to function when my mind will be filled with images of her pulling me close and the taste of her mouth when she kissed me in a way I can never expect to forget?

As I'm trying to sort my conflicting, harrowing emotions, she makes it worse by taking my hand. "We have danced around each other for some time now. In one week, I'll be gone...and I might never see you again. I should have asked, I suppose, but I thought, or I convinced myself, that you wanted that kiss as much as I did. I would never forgive myself if I didn't at least try."

Andrea's words hit me right in the solar plexus. From there, they rush throughout my system and linger in every cell. I want to curl up around this pain, as if it was a grenade with the pin out, to keep it from obliterating my world.

She's moving on from Runway—and, yes, me— to follow her dreams, to become a serious journalist where her social pathos and fair approach to life will take her far. Her talent is undisputable, and I have no right to stay in the way of such a promising success.

Her initial assessment is correct. I wanted that kiss, or thought I did, until I realized there could never be just the one kiss. I feel a shocking desire to explain myself. "You kissed me," I manage to say and then I hold my breath.

"I did." Now she smiles, but unsurprisingly there is no malice or scorn in her expression. Instead, the way she looks at me mellows my earlier pain. "I don't regret it," she continues. "Isn't that what you've told me-to own my decisions and make them work?" She grows a little flustered. "But I shouldn't have been so sure that you might want it as much as I did."

"How could the decision to kiss me possibly work for you in the long run?" My attempt at sounding contemptuous fails, crashes and burns. Instead, I sound breathless and unsure, both which I detest.

"Miranda. Tell me you loathed the kiss and regret the way you kissed me back, and I won't bother you again. I'll work my last week at Runway as if nothing happened, even if it kills me. Just tell me if it didn't mean anything to you."

Andrea is braver than I thought. She puts all on one card and goes up against me and my razor tongue, wealth, and power, not to mention my ability to manipulate people with a mere glare. All this makes me a formidable adversary and she knows it. Yet she challenges me to be truthful and tell her to her face to go away—if I can.

Of course I can't. I can no more deny her, than I can wear a cerulean poly blend sweater to the Met Gala. I want to scream in frustration, shove her out of my kitchen and then out the front door and let her take an uber or the metro home and out of my life. But I know I'd never be the same if I did. Looking into her mesmerizing eyes, I know the same is true for her.

"Kiss me again, Andrea," I whisper and cup her cheek. I have never touched her face before. Her skin is like velvet.

Andrea stands so fast she startles me and fling her arms around my neck. Her lips are back on mine without hesitation, parting my lips and finding my tongue. I do what I did only moments ago and more. I wrap my arms around her, pull her flush to my body and return her kiss. This time I don't hold back at all. I caress her tongue with mine. Her taste is sweet and dark. I slip my hand in under her shirt and caress her silky skin. Andrea moans against me and the sound goes straight to my tense thighs.

"Miranda," she whispers against my lips. "Is this your answer?"

To what? I try to recap our words before the kissing started again. Ah. That. She challenged me to push her away—or not. "Oh, yes," I purr and bury my face against her fragrant neck. "This is my answer. You might end up regretting this, as you may think you know what you're getting yourself into. You don't."

"Don't underestimate me, Miranda. I may not know everything, but neither do you. That's both part of the fun and how a relationship should be." Andrea speaks with gentle certainty. Again, so brave.

I tremble. Relationship. I've taken the first steps into a relationship with Andrea Sachs, and I have no idea where this will lead. I know I'm good at deluding myself, but I'm not a complete fool. I do know I love her. I wonder how long it'll be before I develop some faith that this could work. Before I dare tell her. No matter what, sitting here on the stool with Andrea nestled against me, kissing me, touching me, and murmuring tender words, is all I need right now. All I can take, really. "Don't let go," I hear myself say with a catch in my voice.

"Not a chance."

We kiss some more. I drown in her embrace. Her arms help ground me and something tight and cold just below my ribcage appears to uncoil. I decide I won't question the strange paths my mind takes when I begin to wonder if this—being in Andrea's arms-might just save my soul. "Thank you," I murmur without quite realizing it.

"You're welcome...and thank you right back." Andrea hums contentedly against my temple. This and the clear relief and joy in her voice settles something inside me and I take her hand.

"Are you staying?" I am strangely unafraid to ask.

"Yes."

Such a clear and strong word deserves a reward.

Pulling her close, I kiss Andrea again.

THE END