next kiss

Female. My age range (meaning within fifteen or twenty years my junior; within, meaning potentially one year my junior, or seven, or six months; hate my shallow chronological standard if you must). Equal to my height or shorter or taller. Equal to my weight or less than, but not 100 pounds (cf. hatred disclaimer above and modify accordingly). Lips not striated, thin, or parched. Full. Supple. Soft. Lipsticked, possibly amply and possibly boldly red. Not arid yet not slobbery. Preceded by mutual visual, olfactory, tactile, and verbal cues, signals, codes, mutually deciphered on some primitive and inescapable level. Daytime. Not morning. Initiated by me (to atone to myself and the world for a lifetime of uninitiativeness). But an element of surprise not adorned with aggression. A dollop of serendipity. Tentative. A false start. The risk of failure. And then the at-first subtle though soon sure and unmistakable reprise and reboot of First Kiss (see preceding post), the sought-for though unexpected betrayal of the rules of the universe, allowing the participants a taste of sparkling history and young wonder. Crackling of burnt dendrites.