The Art of the Kiss

by Holly Schindler

  It was about Fayth.

  The moment had smacked him upside the head, hard enough to finally wake up.

  My feet were moving, and I was weaving, scooting, rushing, my eyes on Ryan. I’d been hunting down kisses long enough to know one was coming. The tension between these two was as electric as the seconds before a summer storm.

  I slipped outside as Ryan grabbed hold of Fayth’s arms. There it was. Recognition of what they had. Knowing where they could go together. The understanding, finally, that an all-consuming love had long been boiling over and spewing between them. “My God. Fayth. It’s been you. All along, hasn’t it?” he said. “How could I have been so stupid? It’s always been you and me.”

  I raised my camera.

  Emotions pulsed through the air, changing the color of the space around them. Rolling heat rippled, warming the atmosphere.

  They wrapped their arms around each other.

  I waited for the acknowledgment, the concession, the agreement, the I love you.

  Fayth’s eyes grew wet. She slipped her arms around Ryan’s waist. He lowered his face.

  It happened.

  The kiss.

  I snapped, flash flying out into the world, feeling a familiar rush of emotion. That from-the-gut feeling that assured me the picture I’d snapped had not just been good, but important. How could it not be? That was a first kiss decades in the making.

  The rush turned into a cold splash of remorse as I turned back toward Murio’s and saw Heather’s face in the window.

  ~July 4, 1970~

  Sharon waited all day. All eight agonizing hours of red, white, and blue. Of the humid summer Missouri heat. Of picnic blankets. Of mosquitoes and heavy potato salad and lemonade that didn’t seem to soothe the dryness at the back of her throat.

  She waited.

  She waited through the hot dog dinner; the same hot dog dinner she’d been enjoying for years, but suddenly tasted like slop, each bite growing in the most unappetizing manner the longer she chewed. She waited through yet another slew of stories her dad told Michael about growing up Sharon style. She maneuvered through the crowd, but every last nerve in her body had frazzled, and she was having trouble focusing on a subject for new pictures.

  She waited as the sky turned ever…slowly…oranger…and finally, finally started to darken.

  Her father squeezed her shoulder as he hoisted himself off their picnic blanket.

  Now that twilight had arrived, slinking across the park like a cat, it seemed the rest of Fairyland was waiting anxiously. Readying themselves to enjoy the spectacle in the sky. Just a few more minutes.

  But Sharon’s own agonizing wait was over.

  She reached for her camera case and removed the small felt box. Suddenly, she didn’t have just one heart but thousands of little tiny ones, each of them pumping and thundering away.

  Her mouth felt drier than it had ever had—including her first and last attempt at running the city’s half marathon. Glancing down at her tattoo, still visible in the last dregs of hazy evening light, she urged herself to buck up and get on with it.

  “Michael,” she started, but he had angled himself away from her and seemed intent on digging into the pocket on his slacks.

  “Michael,” she repeated. He still wasn’t paying attention.

  “Michael.” She nudged him repeatedly, until he finally turned to face her.

  “I—well—” She cracked open a box, exposing the man’s ring. Her father’s wedding band, which he hadn’t worn for decades. The same band he’d given to her with a teary-eyed smile when she’d admitted out loud how she felt about Michael—and what she wanted. The same simple gold band that she’d taken to a jeweler, requesting the inclusion of three new small diamonds.

  “Why are you pounding at me, woman?” he teased. But when he finally saw the ring box, a frown dug deep into his face.

  “This last year,” she started. But as usual, she fought for the right words. She’d rehearsed this, but now, all of it felt hollow.

  It had been a fresh, lovely flower of a year. The two of them out enjoying the best of Fairyland. Her work beginning to draw attention. Michael becoming a recognizable reporter. A year of interwoven fingers and the feel of him beside her on park benches and movie theaters. The sound of his familiar voice on the phone. Slowly, her fragile uncertainties had grown sturdy beneath her.

  If she’d felt it, surely Michael had too.

  She pushed the ring closer to him, avoiding words. Wanting the ring to say everything she couldn’t. Didn’t it already?

  “Are you proposing?” he asked, just loud enough to make a few nearby heads turn their way.

  “I—”

  “No,” he said, scrunching his face and pushing the ring box away.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?” Sharon challenged, fighting the hot surge blasting across her cheeks.

  “I mean no.”

  “Really!” Sharon shouted. From the corner of her eye, she could see her father’s large frame swiveling toward them.

  “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” Sharon announced. Now she didn’t have to search for words at all. Her anger was finding them for her.

  “Stupid? Why? Because I turned you down—”

  “Stupid because you know how this is between us. You know.”

  “And how is it?” Michael asked, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back on his hands.

  “Is that a smirk?”

  “A smirk?”

  “On your face.”

  “Must just be I’m squinting into the sunset. You were saying?”

  “I was saying you’re being an idiot. All the time I’ve known you, I never thought you were an idiot. Annoying at first, maybe. But never an idiot.”

  “And yet?”

  “And yet, here you are, refusing to acknowledge what we have. Sure, you and I are a strange couple at first glance. We look like opposites. Only, we’re not, are we? We’re both a couple of outspoken, opinionated—whatevers. You no more than me. And don’t ask me why, but you can bounce your column ideas off me and I can show you my work and we don’t give each other nice, fluffy answers. No ‘Gee, that’s swell’s. We tell each other what we really think. And it never hurts. Because we know it’s not said to be mean. It’s honest. It’s said with respect. And we want each other to be great. Because we’re in this mess—”

  “Mess?”

  “Thing. Whatever it is. Together. You and me. We fell for each other. I mean really each other. You don’t care that I can’t cook pot roast or keep a plant longer than half an hour, and I don’t care about your stuffy button-down shirts.”

  “Well, you mostly don’t care about my shirts. I’m pretty sure you’d have me in longer hair, maybe with a tattoo of my own—”

  “Shut up! Really! Are you even listening? Haven’t you been paying attention? Don’t you know that I like it? I want to go to Macy’s and buy stuffy button-down shirts. I want to show you my pictures and know that you’ll tell me they’re great or they stink or they’re not quite there. I want to hear what you’re working on. I want to know that you trust me for solid input. Like I trust you. None of this is the way it usually is. I mean, usually, somebody in a relationship has the upper hand, right? Somebody has a more impressive job, or makes more money or something. One’s the more admirable one. But for some reason, here we are, and we look up to each other. It’s like some weird perspective trick that shouldn’t be real but is. Like some Escher drawing of staircases that all go in circles, and all look to be on the same floor, no step any higher than any other.”

  When he didn’t respond, she shrugged, hoping that her analogy wasn’t too over the top. In a calmer voice, she added, “Of course, we both know I’m the one who’s probably going to make gobs more money.” Mostly, she said it to fill the air. Make him laugh. Get a reaction. Why was he just staring at her?

  Finally, Michael’s grin began to widen, but only a little.

  “That—right
there—that was a smirk.”

  Michael shrugged.

  The night grew still darker. The Fairyland Orchestra made a bunch of dissonant noises as they tuned up for the “1812 Overture.” Fireworks would start soon.

  “So?” she pressed.

  “So what?”

  “What do you think—about any of it? Come on. Look at us. It fits. All of it. Think of where we’d be in fifty years. I bet we wouldn’t even have to speak at all. We’d be able to just read each other’s thoughts. How could this possibly go wrong?”

  “I think it already has. I think you’re screwing everything up.”

  “Me? How am I screwing it up?”

  “Because.” Michael leaned to the side, reached into his pocket, and finally pulled out a felt box of his own.

  They laughed hard enough to make a few more nearby heads turn away from the wide black star-studded heavens to stare at them. And they exchanged rings underneath a sky that had only just started to explode in color and fire and splendor.

  ~Michael~

  Heather stumbled across the floor of Murio’s looking utterly shattered.

  I might have called out to her. But how could she have heard me over the radio Murio had turned on in an effort to fill the air now that the band had scattered? Two of The Tommies were onstage tinkering with equipment, the other two still outside.

  Next to a far wall, Mr. Liu continued to chat with Amanda and her husband.

  Or should I say the two men were involved in the conversation, taking turns shouting into each other’s ears.

  Amanda’s eyes—and her full attention—were on Heather.

  Beneath the swirling disco ball lights, the room moved in slow motion.

  Heather seemed completely disoriented. Her chest heaved as she fought for breath. She looked confused. Hurt. Ryan had kissed Fayth. Sharon had preserved it in a photo. Even I had seen all that through the front window, same as Heather. Had Heather loved Ryan? Was her heart broken?

  Or was she embarrassed? Ambushed? Did she feel like a fool?

  She hadn’t called him back after the kiss at Slade Music. Why? Because she didn’t know what to say, or because she’d already accepted it was over?

  If she had, why was she upset? Because Ryan had chosen someone quickly? Because he’d chosen Fayth? It was hard to find out someone you’d spent so much time with had decided you were nothing more than a mistake they needed to make, to learn from, so they could finally recognize the face of their true happiness.

  It was pretty clear Heather was trying not to notice Sharon, who had stepped back inside the bar. She didn’t want to talk about what Sharon had just photographed.

  But I was still convinced she would talk to me. If I could just get close enough for her to hear me. She would listen. I didn’t have many powers, but I had that. I could make people think. My time on the radio had convinced me. I’d make her realize how unfair and unjust it was for her to have that camera. It had fallen into the wrong hands. She’d see this was my quest. She would realize the right thing to do would be to return my magic.

  She could stop being my villain. She could lead with kindness.

  Yes, I would wield my words like a gleaming knight’s sword, and she would understand—and comply.

  Before I could reach her, Heather took a deep breath and did her best to collect herself. She started to bring the viewfinder toward her eye, but stopped suddenly, a look of utter horror spreading across her face.

  “Oh, no,” she murmured, turning the old camera over in her hands. She sneaked the briefest of glances at Liu, then turned back toward the Nikon. “Oh, no, oh, no…”

  ~Sharon~

  Heather thrust the camera at me.

  “Look,” she insisted.

  “What happened?” I asked. “This isn’t mine.” It couldn’t have been. The dents and scratches were gone.

  Anger broke like sweat across my skin.

  “I don’t know,” Heather kept saying over and over, her words gaining speed. “I know I took the camera out of the case when I first walked in, but I didn’t look at it too closely. I mean, why would I think the camera was different? It’s an old Nikon. But it’s not yours. How could that happen?”

  She rubbed her forehead, looking sick.

  “When did you have it last?” I asked.

  “Yesterday. In my apartment, when…” Her voice trailed.

  “When what?” I pressed.

  “Amanda,” she blubbered, gesturing toward her friend. “She came over last night. She had some—she—she—”

  “She what?” The room was swirling, past and present colliding. I felt like I was still in the park. On that first Independence Day with Michael. Like something that had been broken then was being broken all over again.

  Only this time, it was maybe shattered forever.

  “She brought me these clothes,” Heather was saying, pointing at her blouse and slacks.

  Laughter bubbled up around me. And cheerful voices. The sounds of a birthday party. I wondered how anyone could feel like celebrating. Didn’t they know how wrong everything was right then?

  “Can’t be,” Heather muttered. “Amanda—she’s my best friend. Since we were kids.”

  Meanwhile, Amanda was looking everywhere but our way.

  “What do I do? I mean, I can’t bow out. Not in front of Liu. But what else is there? How will I ever get it to work? This isn’t your camera. Yours was special. It knew how to help me. I need it.”

  How could you? I wanted to yell. You were careless. Where is it? Don’t you understand what I created with it? My career. My life. My whole life.

  But did I really want to yell it at Heather?

  Or me?

  She blubbered some apology, some plea for advice.

  My eyes bounced over Heather’s shoulder. I couldn’t stand to look at her.

  Looking at the walls on the other side of the bar didn’t help, either. Because the confusion—the swirling lights and the constantly moving crowd—was creating a mirage. Making my old images appear to have come to life. Michael was stepping out of one of the pictures and heading straight toward me.

  Only—no. It wasn’t some mirage. It wasn’t some fifty-year-old picture. It was really Michael. He’d followed me. My heart lurched. He hadn’t simply seen my note and shrugged, turning back to scribble in one of his eighty million notebooks. He’d come for me.

  Michael grew increasingly closer, heading my way.

  I took a step away from Heather, feeling for a second like I was falling into a black hole.

  Did it even matter that Michael had arrived? Was it too late? All time had done was steal from me. Everything had vanished. My youth. Dad. The baby I didn’t even know I had. Admiration. The easy ways Michael and I had enjoyed. All those things I had come to count on, including my own abilities. Any talent I might have called my own. The camera. It was gone now too.

  Which meant that magic was gone. Even in Michael’s silly fairy tales, that never happened. Plans were thwarted. Evil came roaring onto the scene. But the heroes never lost their own magic.

  I had. I’d let it go, let it out of my sight.

  What would I do without it?

  And still, Michael grew closer.

  All I knew right then was that I didn’t want to keep being reflected in Heather’s story. I didn’t want to meet the same bad ending she had just met with Ryan.

  Impossible! I tried to tell myself. But then again, how could Michael and I have even gotten to this place? When we had been so perfect, so much the same? When we had fallen for the same reasons, the right reasons. Fallen for who we really were, not pretty portraits with our flaws airbrushed out.

  “It’s gone,” I moaned. And in those two simple words, I let it all pour out: missing him and the kiss pictures and everything I wanted to get back and everything I feared—more at that moment than ever before—might have already vanished for good.

  “What’s gone?” Michael blurted. “What are you talking about?”
/>   “The camera. Our camera. I don’t know where it is.”

  ~Michael~

  As her words hit the air, utter joy broke through me.

  It didn’t matter that the camera was missing. Not anymore. It wouldn’t have mattered if I never saw it again.

  Because Sharon kept blubbering, “I want it back. I want that camera. It’s ours. How could I have let it get away in the first place?”

  It was all I needed. What I’d truly wanted all along. Sharon recognizing how special that old gizmo actually was. That it didn’t deserve being shunted to the junk closet, along with a bunch of old everyday items.

  I was no longer looking at her face. I was looking at fifty years. Triumphs and heartaches and surviving. I was looking at her heart and mine. I was looking at this woman who had never needed me, who would have been fine without me. This woman who had chosen me anyway. Who chose me still.

  I was looking, in short, at a beginning.

  Our beginning.

  The second one.

  As I stared at her, I saw her face shift—like she was reading me, somehow.

  “It’s been gone for a long time, though, hasn’t it?” she asked.

  I shook my head, knowing exactly what she meant.

  “We let it get away,” she went on. “Didn’t we? We got lazy. We put it away, like some sort of heirloom. And then we let it out of its safe place. And now, what are we going to do? It’s gone.”

  “Asleep,” I tried to correct.

  “Dead,” Sharon cried out. “Or—dried up.” Like somehow, she’d killed it right along with the houseplants.

  I laughed as I reached for her. “No. We didn’t let it get away. Love hasn’t dried up. It’s asleep. Which means it can be awakened. Like Sleeping Beauty. Don’t you feel it?”

  “Do I—” Sharon’s voice trailed. “I don’t feel anything most times but what’s missing. How could that be? We didn’t start like them.” She nodded once toward Heather and once toward Ryan, still with Fayth just outside the bar. “We can’t end up like them. Can we?”

  “Look how we started. With a camera that should have been broken forever. Look where we are. At some creepy old mortuary. Things around us keep rising from the dead, Shar. You want to know what magic is? What it really is? Two people coming together. That’s it. When that happens, even the impossible is possible.”