Kissmet mf "Kiss me." He did not hear this in her voice; she did not offer. It was his own unspoken attempt to reach out to her, to provide one moment of intimate comfort for them both. She continued without pause in her lively, expressive soliquoy: about a funny moment in class today, about a friend's tumultuous relationship, about anything but herself. Why did she avoid it? Could she really feel so alone, yet so vulnerable as to hesitate? He hid his probing beneath a mask of demure congeniality. He reacted to her words as if she were leading him in a well-choreographed two-step between platonic dance partners; scanning her eyes as they dipped and rolled with the rhythm of her inflections, her articulations, her lips... "Kiss me." The telepathic imperative again, more urgent -- focusing for one instant upon startling her into realizing the affection he was trying to convey... No response. A lock of hair dropped over her forehead, in front of her eyes. He instinctively brushed the strands off her cheek, back towards her ear. Still, no awkward moment, no change in her disposition as he'd briefly violated her personal space. She appeared so utterly comfortable with him in their present interaction. He suddenly felt alienated by the absolute normalcy of the external conversation. He was trying to communicate, spirit-to-spirit, but she could not hear him. She was reading his light-hearted expressions, but did not acknowledge his inner intent: "Kiss me!" No answer. Disconnect. He recounts a superficially amusing non sequitur of his own, and she smiles and listens intently. One of them glances at their watch, and it's already past time to depart. They say goodbye to one another as they've already taken two or three steps off in perpendicular directions. As he walks on he comforts himself with a devilishly cynical day-dream: What if she were trying equally hard to send him the same mental message? He winces to think this might be true. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Kiss me." At some point in so many of my relations with someone I've cared about, the thought would rise from the subliminal ether into my consciousness. I'm never sure whether it is a statement of intent or an anticipation of the most probable next stage direction in my personal screenplay of romance. "Kiss me." Sometimes, the premonition comes with a quick confirmation. At other moments, I wait and wait until impatience drives me away; or until the mood changes naturally, and I forget the tension altogether. It was only today, however, that I really began to question where this idea is coming from, and who is in charge. I feel, for instance, that a kiss is a deep form of affection, of security, and of support between two people. Thus, I may have this realization whenever I want to share these feelings with someone important to me. To me, a kiss is not strictly an invitation or foreplay for something more physically raucous. As a form of communication, it is an end unto itself. Intimate. Mutual. Sublime. If two people both entertain the thought, then, are they always free to act upon it? I wonder... "Kiss me."