The Irishman's Kiss

On nights like this she remembers the scene, the muted light, the room stuffy from the fire in the grate yet the draft from the huge window sending shivers along her spine. He painted the scene not long after, so she doesn't need to stir her heart to recall how it felt to recline in delicious languor as he bent to kiss her softly from behind her chair, the crisp smell of cold air and the evening's journey on his skin, his clothes, all about him. It was one of his most celebrated paintings and he called it simply "Night".

And now that many years have passed she recalls it as one of her happiest times. She was blissfully unaware of all that was to come later, as one always is. Yet maybe the cold prickly air that stole into her glowing heart through the drafty window and from his stubbly jaw served as a warning. Easy to think that now.

He was her husband but he loved another, and his celebrity as an artist soon inspired him to take what he wanted and be with whom he loved. And so the glow in her heart faded but that isn't what she remembers now. What she remembers is how she felt that night, how the wait for him to return was as painfully pleasurable as the kiss that he immortalized forever.

Dill07