When he kissed me there in the parking lot, near the silver Mercedes and the woman with too much lipstick starting her SUV, I didn’t expect that my knees would buckle a bit. And just when I could breathe again, when he released me from his steely grip and my senses began to return, I didn’t expect him to ask me for another.
And when I acquiesced, I definitely didn’t expect that just the hint of pressure from his index finger on my jawline would bring a sudden warmth to my face and chest, even though the night air was well below freezing. Our tongues slid gently as our lips folded, perfectly melding into liquid heat and desire. My hands trembled so that I had no choice but to make them stop by digging my nails into his expensive winter jacket.
His kiss was like coming home.
It lasted less than a minute, but I felt each second tick by – the weight and intensity. Suddenly, we understood the enormity of what this was, and it hung there, taunting us.
Afterward, when I tried to look him in the eye, our mouths exhaling steam into the cold, I found that I could no longer hold his gaze. He could see right through me; I was far too exposed . . .
When I finally started my car, when the shaking stopped so that I could fit the key in the ignition, the radio blared a Jordin Sparks song that I had previously detested. But in that moment, in the busy parking lot under the orange street lamps, where he had just kissed me with such unbridled passion and feeling, I understood.
No Air.
I won’t see him again. We’re married – to other people.
Still, I want him to know that I felt it. And that I’m still feeling it, reliving it. The pounding of my heart. When I forgot to breathe. His lips against mine. The softness of his freshly-shaven cheek. The electricity of his gentle touch. The intoxicating smell of him. His eloquence, intelligence, beauty.
No Air.
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