Wite Out for the Brain

Part Two

If sound has a taste, the slap would assault the taste buds with concentrated bitterness, a sour poison scorching the tongue. The rise of bile is almost as surprising as the infringement that had birthed the hostile reaction. It could not be spat out, it would not be swallowed. And her mouth fills with venom potent enough to disintegrate the words that should have been spoken, leaving syllables in ashes between her teeth.

It's not that she made a habit of violence…

A first time offender, she blames him for the encroachment over their sand-drawn line. As he stands before her, hand resting on targeted cheek, he is a man caught trespassing. Their morning fight had contained no erotic elements that could have prompted this: rarely did yelling over decomposing remains rank as a turn on. To her recollection, she'd done nothing to provoke him. Suggestive teasing and overt leering took up no pages in their playbook; contact was restricted to sibling-standard touches motivated by only the purest intentions. But no court would find chasteness in his current purpose.

It's not that she minded being kissed, in principle…

But in practice, a kamikaze kiss is relationship suicide; dead before the crash. The episode of neglected judgment displayed no foreshadowing and therefore no pre-thought; just a dropping of lips onto hers like a bomb upon foreign soil. And the explosion arrives with the swing of her open palm. It hurts, but not nearly as much as her shattered ideal. Unplanned advances represented a failed litmus test for seriousness. And therein lay the problem.

It's not that she hadn't imagined the corporeal properties of kissing the man…

But where is the romance? The chase? The mistletoe? At least one of them should have shown the decency to be drunk. Inevitable as it may have been, she is still a woman who demanded some attempt at proper courting. Or at least warning. While she can summon no anger that he'd kissed her, she fumes over the way it was accomplished. The glorious moment when they'd taken this liberty should have come slowly, complete with meaning and planning and wooing. And possibly wine. And maybe less corpse bits. Is it wrong to expect this event to be conducted as a joint venture? Does he not understand they'd never again have a first kiss? Apparently the destruction of precedent is secondary to the inconvenient blow of rigid fingers on cheekbone. Next time he should have the good sense to duck. And next time comes perilously close when he gives his reason:

"It's Thursday."

It's not that she expected a Titanic-worthy declaration…

However, a repeat of the slap has to be forcefully halted at this nonsensical excuse. Yes, it is Thursday and last she checked, Thursday's child was… well, probably a well-adjusted team player. It seems an affront to the forgotten nursery rhyme to spoil the day with a one-sided advance. He may be content to execute a drive-by, but she won't allow such disservice to be the final act. Her lips have waited too long for an introduction to his to settle for a spontaneous and hasty salutation. His surprise greeting will be wiped from her mind, a deletion aborting the damage to her fantasies. Yes, it is Thursday and a fine day to have to fix a man's ineptness. When her hands rise again, they move of a tender volition and no cheeks are harmed in the undertaking.

"So do Thursday right," she admonishes with a mouth aiming for coveted collision.

It's not that a tray-load of rotted flesh is a common accessory to passion…

Still, if taste has a sound, her re-scripting of a first kiss would assault the ear drums with a hallelujah chorus. Indeed there is sound; a faint applause echoing from behind the closed door in the tenor of a suspected seed planter.