The Velvet Kiss

She was the first girl he ever kissed. Her lips felt just as he imagined a girl’s lips would, only softer. Like velvet. He loved her lips above all else. She never wore lipstick. She didn’t need to. Her lips were a permanent crimson and they sat atop her chin like a plump ripe strawberry waiting to be picked. During their twelve years of marriage, he never tired of kissing them. He believed her lips turned a fraction softer and redder with every kiss.

Her lips were the only things about her that hadn’t been affected by her illness. Although she was only thirty-two, her lustrous buttercup hair had become a wizened grey. Her eyes were now sunken murky pebbles, whereas before they looked like large eager hazelnuts trying to burst from their shell. Her olive skin had turned a ghostly white and lost its creamy texture. Now it appeared chalky, and he was afraid to touch it lest she cracked and turned to dust. But unlike everything else, her lips were as vivacious and fruity as ever. He spent most of his time at the hospice staring at them and imagining their velvety caress. Each night before he left he bent down and kissed them. Against her pale face, and glistening with the saliva from his kiss, her lips reminded him of an exquisite ruby perched upon a white silk cushion.

The call came at 3am one Monday in January. By the time he got to her room he knew it was too late. The first thing he noticed as he approached her bedside was the two thin slices of yellowy-blue marble in place of the ruby he’d left behind only hours earlier. Before pulling the sheet over her, he bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead.