The Kiss

The man and woman walking down the sidewalk were partners. They were both good looking folks and it was natural to assume that they may be a couple. This was difficult for their lovers. It was tedious to listen to the recount of their work days, hearing not only the standard ins and outs, but of all the little jokes, accomplishments, disappointments & adventures that the partners shared so intimately. It became very hard for their lovers and spouses not to be jealous, not only of their daily working relationship, but of the stolen moments they either heard about or witnessed.

The two walked down the street shoulder to shoulder. It was a cold day and the morning forecast predicted rain. She was wearing a long trench coat, fastened tightly at the waist. The form complimented her. Accompanied by her black fedora, stocking clad legs and smart shoes, she cut a dashing figure. She was suggestive of a classic spy movie, a Casablanca-inspired look that spoke "top-secret" in a very clever way. He wore a non-descript black suit and trench coat. The only fetching element he wore was his highly polished patent leather shoes. They were remnants of his military days. His Navy dress blues required a highly shined shoe. He now saved them for days which he must wear a suit that promised rain. They were his version of a rain boot.

They walked quickly together, purposefully. They had somewhere they had to be and had decided to walk. The decision was made with enthusiastic murmurings about exercise and getting fresh air before the rain arrived, but it was apparent that it would provide them with an opportunity for more intimate conversation. It also gave them an excuse to walk closely together, shoulder to shoulder. He was carrying his umbrella around his wrist, ready to pop up if rain drops threatened. He was secretly thrilled with the prospect of having an excuse to pull her close. How else would they both fit under the umbrella?

Her brightly lipsticked mouth curved easily and widely into a smile at his little jokes. She liked it best when they spoke in the secret code of partners, commiserating about people they worked with. They occasionally even used unflattering nicknames for their lover's. But that was usually reserved for when one of them was upset with a significant other. They both secretly worried that speaking too often unflatteringly about their mates would lead the other to think that they were complaining too much, a symptom of being a difficult mate. If either of them knew how concerned the other was with how they might be perceived as mates, they would both have blushed ruefully and tried to ignore the pulling butterflies low in their bellies.

She was enamored with the way he smelled, and had purchased the same cologne for her boyfriend. Out of guilt she had convinced herself that it was the cologne she enjoyed so thoroughly, not the way it smelled on her partner. She tried to convince herself of this every time she recognized the smell on another man. She made a point to articulate it out loud to whomever might wear the cologne. She especially made a point to do this in front of her partner. She would smell the scent on another man and, with a big audible whiff, say "God, he is wearing that cologne. It smells so good!!" Feeling very satisfied with himself, her partner would then comment in a clearly joking manner (or perhaps not) that he was amazed that she could keep her hands off of him. She always giggled at this and made some comment in a matching joking manner, that she just might if she wasn't afraid that his very aggressive wife would accost her physically, with very unpleasant results. They would both giggle at this little barb. He always felt a little jolt of pleasure knowing that not only was she insinuating that she would touch him, but also that she apparently understood how unreasonable and unattractive his wife could be. She was still very reluctant to admit that even after her boyfriend had started to wear the cologne, it never smelled quite as good as it did on her partner. She told herself it must have something to do with her partners body chemistry, the cologne just mixed will with him. She could not admit that perhaps it was him and his smell that she liked so much.

He noticed her leg while they walked. He liked it very much when she wore a dress. Not only because it showed her femininity (something that got lost in their line of work), but also because he could see her skin. The hosiery was an added bonus. He loved the sound of her legs crossing and uncrossing while sitting. He could just faintly hear the fabric from one leg rub against the fabric on the other. The sound summoned the image of her legs rubbing against him. He also liked the way her high, round calves ended at her dainty ankles. Today she had on a high healed shoe that had a strap around the ankle, and this only highlighted her tiny features more. They looked extremely hard to walk in, but dead sexy. It let him think of her as dainty and frail. It made him seem very large in comparison, and he liked feeling bigger. He fancied that he would be able to protect her if someone else were to see those dainty ankles and think that they could perhaps attack her, hurt her.

Through the corner of her eyes, she noticed when he inspected her legs, and felt very satisfied. The look stirred a faint tingle below of her stomach She relished the chance to wear a dress because she knew her partner always noticed. Unlike her boyfriend, who gave her plenty of lip service when she wore a dress, her partner reacted physically. His eyes definitely noticed, and he was quicker to open a door and usher her through it with his hand firmly planted at the small of her back. She also noticed that when she crossed and uncrossed her legs he got color in his cheeks and often became uncomfortable. She liked to exert this control over him and the situation made her fidgety, so she would end up crossing and uncrossing her legs more often than usual. She also played with her hair more often. It seemed a natural thing to do. She would cross her legs, and flip her long, auburn hair over her shoulder. She wore it down and curled when she wore a dress, or perhaps pulled it back with a sash. Today she wore a hat. She thought it more prudent in light of the rainy forecast.

He admired the red curls spilling out of the back of her hat. Paired with the trench coat, it almost looked costume-like. Her long, loose curls, her coat, her dangerously high heeled shoes, her brightly tinted lips. She looked as if she should be boarding an old steam train in a far away place, returning home after completing a secret mission. He had read dime store novels ferociously as a teen, and got into police work after fantasizing for hours about being a gritty street detective who always saved the girl. In those younger days, he would lie in bed and practice witty lines that closed the stories in his head. Real police work had been much different, of course. And instead of the pretty damsel in distress showing up across his desk, and fluttering on about how in danger and helpless she was, he worked with his very own damsel everyday. She was competent, quick thinking, kind, funny and empathetic to a fault which only solidified his damsel perception. Although she was incredibly capable at her work, her personal life was often messy. He though she selected a string of boyfriend who were wounded birds in an attempt to help them, nurture them, mother them. Instead, they ended up hurting her. They either flourished under her care and flew away for bigger and better things, or abused her giving nature until it was apparent even to her that things must end. This last boyfriend had lasted a lot longer than her partner was comfortable with. The boyfriend was a struggling writer, and by the very nature of his profession depended on her to support him, both fiscally and mentally. Her partner thought it was disgusting how the boyfriend lived a life smothered by unreciprocated support and love.

This only made his home life more painful. He went home each night to a very beautiful but hard woman, who let her sense of practicality be her excuse for not giving him affection, but who betrayed this sense by spending oodles of time and money with other people. It wasn't always like that. They were married at eighteen and had embarked in what seemed like a great adventure together. Now they had been married for twelve years, had two kids and a house in the suburbs, that was just a little to expensive for his civil servant's salary. He wasn't sure exactly when it happened, although it seemed to be marked by the birth of his first child, but at some point any sense of adventure had left the relationship. He was filled with this great drive to take care of his family, but was disgusted with what they did with what he gave. It left him feeling guilty about resenting them. His fantasies of other woman, of his partner, often revolved around sex, but he had come to realize with an epiphany-like force that the fantasies had much less to do with sex and much more to do with acceptance and touch and love. His fantasies, like the thoughts of his partners legs, often revolved around snippets of intimate relations set in the process of sexual coupling. After realizing this, the intimate moments he stole with his partner became much more significant and satisfying to him, and ultimately a bigger source of guilt.

Suddenly big rain drops began lob on the sidewalk. When they fell upon her nose and then her cheek, she let out an excited and surprised "Oh!". With a sweeping motion, he swung the umbrella up from his hands and depressed the button to open it up. In a short moment he had the umbrella open. To the music of her surprised giggled he slipped a hand around her tightly bound waist and pulled her close, under the umbrella. It would occur to him later that he had unsnapped the strap that bound the umbrella closed when they had come out of the building. He couldn't imagine that this action was planned, but he knew better than to think it was coincidental. He had the fantasy so many times of being a seedy detective while she the helpless heiress. The two of them walking alone in the rain, down a dark alley, exchanging witty lines and stealing kisses before taking each other right there, against a wet and dirty wall, her dressed pushed up to her waist. Perhaps when he saw her that day, dressed unknowingly for the part. With a forecast of rain, his imagination secretly took over and set the stage.

When he pulled her close under the umbrella, the rain and wind picked up. Suddenly her nose was against his neck. The smell was warm in contrast to the bitingly wind. She was delighted with it, and leaned in to smell him more without even thinking. In that moment, she was forced to realized that it it was the smell on him that she adored. She was suddenly red faced and very embarrassed to be only inches from his white collar, the expanse of smooth skin on his long, strong neck. She noticed the fine hairs on his neck, the bulge of muscle that disappeared into his collar. Those images tempted her to lean in for kiss, maybe a nibble of that smooth skin. Her faced burned with even more mortification, and perhaps hidden lust, at the thought that he might notice that when he pulled her under the umbrella, she snuggled in more. The line of his body was warm and lusciously inviting. That cold breeze had cut under her coat, up her barley clad legs. She was afraid he would think she was coming on to him, inviting him to her. And while the thought of being excited to wear a dress in front of him was reconciled with her conscience (every girl like to confirm that they are pretty, didn't they?) the thought that he might interpret something she did as purposefully enticing him was very embarrassing, and maybe even a little scary. The sheer thought of soiling his life, his family, simply to fulfill her silly need for his flesh wracked her with guilt. And besides, she had learned long ago that if she never offered herself, he could never say no.

She immediately adjust her posture giving her some distance from him. She was beginning to feel fuzzy brained and need to be away from his warm scent, from his delicious neck, from his pretty, aggressive wife, from his two lovely (albeit spoiled) children. All this time they had continued to walk forward, awkwardly against each other. When she pulled away from him she wasn't paying attention to the sidewalk. She did not realize they had gotten to a intersection and that a curb lay directly in front of her. Neither of them saw the sewer grate over the edge of the curb. So when she stepped forward and the sidewalk disappear, she was very surprised. Miscalculating the stepping distance to the ground, all of her weight followed her leg. She let out another surprise "Oh!" as she stepped very hard onto the sewer grate. The heal of her shoes unexpectedly caught in the grate and she tumbled as she tried to step forward, tried to catch herself with her other foot.

He, of course, stopped walking when she fell. She wasn't clumsy often. It had not escaped his notice that she had sniffed his neck when he had pulled her close. He was sure the tip of her nose had brushed his skin when she leaned into him. But she was comical now. He was looking forward to teasing her later about her lack of grace. He imagined it all in an instant. They would be sitting together tonight, after the deposition that they were heading to, in the dark paneled bar across from the court house. He would rib her about how she got too close to him and got so excited that she tripped over herself. That thought was immediately followed by an instant of worry. He knew that if she were to fall and rip her hosiery, or soil her dress, that it would be a minor "female" emergency. He knew after being married for years that no woman would turn up to a destination knowingly wearing ripped nylons. It occurred to him then that he should try to catch her. What better than to rescue his damsel? He smiled at this and went to step forward.

In that instant, that true instant, two things happened. Firstly, the woman did fall. The shoe that was caught in the sewer grate did not release until the very last minute. The strain of her weight pulling against her trapped shoe was released, and it was enough force to thrust her body forward too quickly for her other leg to keep up. She wrenched forward for a second, her body half bent over, head down, blindly driving forward. She had apparently predicted her fall because her hands were not flapping wildly to keep balance, but instead were in front of her, ready to brace her body. Secondly, the man noticed their surroundings. They were a little bit further along the road than he thought. Their conversation and moment of intimacy had distracted him and they had walked the route to the courthouse mindlessly, knowing the way from many similar trips. They were now directly in front of the Court house, in a very busy intersection that crossed four lanes of traffic. Already the press had assembled on the court house steps. This was, after all, a very important trial, and required attention. He was aware of feeling a vague sense of dread as he realized that all of the reporters congregated on the court house steps had abruptly turned around to face him. He knew from years of experience that reporters had a mystic-like sense of events and often recognized the sounds, sights and smells of disaster before anyone else. Much like a flock of birds, when they reacted and moved in groups as they were now, you could guarantee they detected a front page story.

His attention turned back to her just in time to see her land on her hands and knees. He took a sharp breath knowing that she had ripped her hosiery and may even have bloodied her hands and knees. He immediately began to step forward. He became aware of the oncoming taxi cab only when it honked loudly at him. The cab had begun to slow down because it was turning right into the adjacent street. The man looked up to see the taxi cab driver staring at him. The cab driver had angry eyes, perhaps upset because he thought the man standing on the corner would jay walk, even though the driver had his blinkers on and a green arrow. Driving a taxi in the city was serious business, especially when you had a well-dressed fare who said he had to be somewhere immediately, and that the taxi driver would be taken care of if he could get the fare to his destination inside of ten minutes. In the taxi drivers mind this man on the corner was trying to jay walk, apparently to get to the courthouse on the other side, and if he had to slow his cab he would jeopardize his tip.

The taxi driver leaned on his horn and stepped on the accelerator to startle the man. The taxi driver gave the man a dirty look, accompanied with a slightly satisfied smirk, as the driver noticed the surprise and horror on the man's face. That's right, buddy the Taxi driver thought back up. No one wants to get hit by a car. The taxi drivers eyes were still locked with the man on the corner when he struck the women. The cab driver and his fare had no idea what had just happened. The taxi driver felt something tug at the steering wheel, and then heard a horrible noise. He heard a human sound, a scream perhaps, and then hard organic sounding crunches. Instinct told the driver to speed up, get out of the way. This was not an attempt to hit and run, but to remove himself from harms way. In his panic the driver pushed on the accelerator. He heard a second, sickening crunch as he felt his back tires drive over something. The physical thud of the cabs back end hitting the ground was accompanied by an unknown sound. After the taxi driver had relived this moment in his dreams again and again, he realized that it was the weight of the cab crushing the woman's lungs at the exact moment she was trying to cry out, creating a unnaturally forced and strangled effect.

Her partner watched it all unfold for a second. Shock and the instinct of self-preservation kept his legs glued to the sidewalk. As the taxi cab rounded the corner and drove over his partner, his damsel, he sprung into action. He lunged forward, unable to scream "No!" or "Stop!" or even "Oh my God!". Instead he flung himself forward, his fists slamming into the trunk of the cab as it pulled around. He didn't notice the taxi cab stop after it rounded the corner, the taxi driver running to the woman. He didn't notice the whole flock of reporters running across the street. He didn't notice that the car following the taxi cab had stopped short. The young woman who was driving it was leaning out her window with her cell phone in hand, calling 911.

The man leaned over the woman. Her hat was lost from her head. Her trench coat was ripped open to expose a black dress with small white polka dots, literally soaked with blood from wounds hidden by the fabric. Her hosiery was impossibly torn. Her legs were literally crushed, bone and flesh exposed, laying at awkward and surreal angles. He knelt down besides her, scooping a hand behind her neck to lift her head. He had completely forgotten his emergency first-aid training mandate to never move a trauma victims neck out of fear of worsening a neck or spinal cord injury. When he put his hand behind her neck his stomach turned. It was soft and not exactly all one piece. He felt warm fluid too thin to be blood. Immediately the tears began to flow uncontrollably as he called her name. He said it gently at first, almost a whisper, but his voice grew with force at each iteration until he was all but screaming. Without out realizing it, he had stopped saying her name and started calling her "baby". He hurriedly whispered hang on baby , it's going to be ok, just hang on.

She wasn't exactly sure what was going on. She hurt everywhere. She did not realize she had gotten hit. She did not realize that her skull and her legs were not in one piece. Her brain was dutifully protecting her from the devastation she had just experienced. She could feel his hands at the back of her neck and was vaguely aware that other people were assembling around her. She was aware that his hand under her head was wet and thought it must be from the rain. It was falling quite heavily now and she thought that they should get out of it. She heard him call her baby, and she smiled a little. It had been a long time since someone calling her baby had given her butterflies. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Her left eye stung when she tried to open it, but her right could see clearly. She saw him over her, frantically looking her up and down. But instead of the admiring look he usually had, he looked panicked, devastated even. The color was completely gone from his face. And even though the rain was falling all over him, it did not hide the fact that he was crying. She realized that it was the exaggerated and panicked cry that she did secretly in the shower when she was feeling overwhelmed. This alarmed and upset her. She tried to sit up, but definitely could not. It did not strike her as odd that her inability to move did not necessarily distress her. She tried to ask him what was wrong, to tell him it was ok. Her overwhelming desire to comfort and give care clouded any mild concern she had for herself. But her mouth wouldn't work right. It seemed there was no air in her lungs. Instead she just made a strangled, gurgling sound. Upon realizing she was the one making the that repulsive noise, she was slightly embarrassed.