Kissings

​​​Bobby: in kindergarten, ​in ​a pretend wedding ​​​​​to​​ ​a boy who grew up and married ​​​​a man. Keri: ​at ​a giggling cousin sleepover, sharing a bed, butterfly eyelashes tickling soft cheeks. Mitzi: ​on ​her scruffy snout before she died from eating rat poison the neighbor left outside.  

Eric: at the skating rink. Steve: at the football game. Eric: in the back of the bus. Steve: next to the Ferris wheel. The mirror​,​ with “Hungry Like the Wolf” playing on repeat​:​ after Eric and Steve dumped me for two-timing them.  

Rumsey​, a homeless ​​guy​: in the alley​,​ before throwing up ​seven​ hot-pink Singapore Slings. Wayne: in the delicious forbidden hour between his first and second jobs, before he went home to his wife. Husband #1: ​n​ot on the neck because that’s where he liked it the most. 

A cop’s ass: ​​figuratively, after he clocked me going 78 in a 55. Husband #2: anywhere and everywhere—if only kisses could hold a marriage together. ​​​​Cheri: on her damp forehead after I whispered that it was OK to go and before ​my precious aunt, my mother’s younger sister, ​took her last rattling breath. 

An envelope​ holding a letter to a misunderstood inmate​: just before putting it into a mailbox. The dirt: in the backyard of my first grown-up house, where I sprinkled poppy seeds my great grandfather brought from Czechoslovakia, dried and saved by ancestors. Husband #3: under a cherry tree, the pale blossoms falling all over us, with a sweet clumsiness that could only mean finally.​​​ 

Kristina Patterson lives and writes in Humboldt County, CA. She is a night owl and a bad ukulele player who is in love with Ferris wheels. She has won several prizes in the North Coast Journal Flash Fiction Contest. 

This essay is a Short Reads original.