The Gift of Moonlight

“It will be the kiss by which all others in your life will be judged… and found wanting.”
~Hearts in Atlantis by Stephen King

“Will you kiss me?” I asked him.
“Huh? Why?” he asked with astonishment in his voice.
“I was just wondering if you would, that’s all…”

I kept my gaze focused on my toes, and my mind on his reaction. The waves smashed against the huge boulders swimming near the cliff, their sound filling my ears with sweet music; the melody resembling the overture of rainfall, and then receding. I can barely make out the crackling of the firewood as the flames danced like ballerinas on a moonlit stage.

I hugged my knees tighter and closer to my chest as a breeze blew west and swept my hair across my face. His silence was driving me anxious.

“So?” I inquired.
“It’s getting late, I think we better go.”

There goes my kiss. I thought to myself. He got up and held his hand out for me and how I wished that he were mine. How I wished that palm – that smile, that guy – were mine to take. I took his hand, pretending we were lovers holding hands, not friends out on a casual conversation. He pulled me up with the slightest effort, and before I knew it, one of his hands slid on my back and the other on my nape.

Had I any experience on kissing, I would have known how to respond. I would have known how to equal every brush of his tongue, exploring, delving further. I would have known how to slant my lips as gracefully as he did with his. I would have known how to hold him as possessively as he cloaked me. And I would have held him close, I would have let him know, if only through my touch, that I desired much more than friendship, I desired a kiss much more than just a friendly favor. I desired all of him.

It ended just as quickly as it had begun.

“You satisfied?”

I nodded shyly, aware of the redness that still painted my cheeks.

“If only you aren’t so old as sixteen, I could have sworn you’d never kissed before”

He laughed and I blushed even more.

…..

Six months have passed since Jared moved to the city. During the first months, he called our house every single night, but as time passed, his calls became less frequent. I’m still getting used to the idea of losing my best friend, even though I should be more taken by the thought of losing my life.

“Hearts in Atlantis” still lay on the desk, unfinished, and perhaps never to be finished. I stopped at the part where Bobby kisses Carol when they were on top of the Ferris Wheel. I suddenly thought of Jared, and of that kiss a year ago. Three hundred sixty five days seems like a long time, and the memory of a kiss should not be as vivid as it is in my memory.

I might die any minute now. I might die tomorrow or the day after. I might have died yesterday. It doesn’t matter for I will die anyway. Leukemia is just a catalyst, and perhaps, without it I wouldn’t have had the courage to ask Jared for that kiss. The only reason why I wanted him to kiss me was to know how it felt to be kissed before I die. If I could be kissed only once in my life, I wanted it to be him.

They tell me he’s coming. They tell me during the past nights, I kept calling Jared in my sleep, so they told my mum and dad and mum called him up and told him to come. Pity if he only made it in time for my rites, then he could do the eulogy – he knew me best than anyone else. It doesn’t really matter whether he comes or not. I don’t want his worried face to be the last thing I see before I die. I’d don’t want to hear his voice asking me why I never told him I was sick. I’d rather immerse myself in the memory of his kiss – gasping for air not because I’m dying, but because he made me breathless.

I hear the cardiograph beeping, and my heart thumping like the sound of hooves from death’s black chariot. I try to remember the night, the flame danseuses and the orchestra of waves. I close my eyes as I try to remember his open palm, his smile, his gaze, his kiss – our kiss. And I pretend it were truly a kiss of love.

I hear the sound of familiar voices from the background – voices of those who sooth and scold me, of those pretty faces in white uniforms, of those wearing stethoscopes, probably witnessing death for the nth time.

And then I hear his voice and I can’t recall a part of my memory where he calls my name with vehemence and strength, so I decided it must have been real. It took me quite some effort to open my eyes and focus on the images surrounding me. The faces are hazed out and blurry but I can tell it’s him by the way he moved towards me.

Now I’m sure it’s him, I can see his face clearly…and I can see mine. Pale, flaccid, and cold, I see my body wrapped in his arms, the shoulders of my hospital gown drenched in his salty tears. My mum is sobbing silently on one corner and my dad isholding her in his arms. The nurses slowly turn to leave, followed by the doctors. My mum hyperventilated and passed out so my dad carried her out of the room to give her some air in the balcony. I remember the days when I look out on that balcony and see lovers, wishing I had mine. Now he’s here, holding me, dead.

He kissed my forehead – the way friends do – and held me close. And then he kissed my lips. Had I been watching it on television, I would have been grossed out. But it’s my body, and those are my lips. He is my love and that is a kiss, not anymore a favor but a gift. And if I wasn’t virtuous enough to deserve heaven, I don’t care, because his arms are my sanctuary and his kiss is my salvation.

If it wasn’t for him, I would never have known the pleasure and ecstacy of a kiss. If it wasn’t for his friendship, it might not have been a happy death. And if it wasn’t for her, he would have been mine. And that kiss by which all others in my life would have been judged would have fulfilled it’s role for then I’d have more of his kisses, but just as undescribable as the first.

And I surely found myself wanting more, even though I knew there was nothing to hope for because I know she’s there.

But why the kiss? Why now when I am dead and could feel nothing of his heat?

He brought his lips closer to my ear so I floated across the room and I heard him whisper: “I’m sorry I never told you, it’s just that you seem so happy with our friendship and I don’t want to risk that by telling you how I feel. Thank you for the kiss. I would never have known kissing could feel so good until I shared it with you. I’ve always pretended she was you, and ever since that night I could pretend it’s your kiss. I’ll keep on pretending. It’s always been you, it’ll always be you and your kiss.”

He wept.

And I wept with him.

Author’s notes: not autobiographical. unedited (might encounter typos and grammatical errors (especially in tenses)). I didn’t get the Leukemia thing from A Walk to Remember or Love Story, a lot of tragic love stories involve disease and cancer just seems pretty romantic, Leukemia the most romantic of them all. I PITY THE OTHER GIRL – JARED’S JUST USING HER. THEY MAY WEEP FOR EACH OTHER, BUT I WEEP FOR HER!

yes, I know exag, but to hell with it..

and no. I’ve never been kissed. and i don’t care.