SHORT STORIES: ‘The Vicarious Kiss’

The young man let out a little yelp as hot soup trickled down his chin onto his collar. He placed the mug on the floor, put down the tatty paperback within which he was engrossed, and began to dab at the greenish stain on his off-white shirt with a tissue which he kept in the breast pocket. It was not the first blemish on the shirt, but he felt he had to try to limit the damage. Suitably satisfied he took up his book once more.

He had been unable to read novels for quite some time now. His patience waned after around a hundred pages, and though he could battle his way through a fresh and immediate novella, he spent most of his time reading short stories. And so on this rainy February afternoon, he sat on the floor, leant up against the edge of his bed, sipping rehydrated powdered soup and reading a volume of Checkov stories. Being unattached and living alone and far from home, he found himself spending many an afternoon in this manner, wading into the lives of others to distract himself from the monotony of his own.

The tale which he read at this point was entitled “The Kiss”, and he paid stark attention to every phrase. There was no need for haste, as the afternoon was still young, and the weather showed no signs of improving. His eyes expertly caressed the page, working slowly and methodically down, but they slowed further as he approached a climax in the narrative.

The protagonist Ryabovich found himself in a dimly lit room, and suddenly found himself in the arms of a lady, with her soft lips pressed tenderly to his.

Suddenly emotions began to surge through the reader’s body. His whole body became light, shivers fired down his limbs, a warmth came to his chest and his head dizzied. Such memories had been dredged from the depths of his mind and pulled into clear vision. He was eighteen, at the beginning of his adult life, and a girl named Marie had grabbed him and pulled him into a tight, passionate embrace. His head had been spinning at the time, and it began to do so again as he recalled the moment. He had almost forgotten the warm and gentle touch of a woman’s body against his own, and he revelled in the glorious memory.

After the initial rush, he settled, and with a loose smile on his face he began to read again. The lady realised her mistake and dashed away. He felt his heart wrench as he remembered how Marie’s embrace had been one of farewell. It may well have been one of love, at that moment impossible to contain due to the immediacy of her future, but it could simply have been to bid him adieu. It had come to mean as much to him in the following weeks as it possibly could do, he had rerun the moment endlessly in his head, but eventually the pang of regret for her departure became a cancer which had started destroying him.

One morning he had decided enough was enough and to forget the past, in order to live the future, and he had done a good job in the former, if not the latter. He read on, delirious from the return of the storms of love, wishing hopelessly that Ryabovich might find a happy ending. As he read the final pages of the story, his heart sank further, and his entire body fell limp. He reflected on his encounter with Marie, and sighed. He would surely never see her again. He had become Ryabovich; resigned to ignoring one of the most striking moments of his life.

As the evening drew in, he could not forget the heat of Marie’s arms around his shoulders. It tormented him throughout the night. He could not let himself continue forward on this path to bitterness. He had to act.

Early the next morning he climbed into the loft and rifled through tens of boxes filled with receipts, invoices and correspondences, and after an hour or so of searching he found the letters Marie had sent him during her first four months away. In the top right corner of the letters was her address. Would it be the same address seven years later? He had to try. He sat down at his desk and stared desperately at the blank sheet on the table top. He thought it a futile task writing a letter that would almost certainly never be read. He stood up from the desk and went to the kitchen.

He found a mug, filled the kettle, and stood over it as it began to heat. As it approached boiling point he put his head in his hands. He must write the letter. Life would not progress until he did. Angrily he sat down on the unforgiving wooden chair and began to write:

Dear Marie, I imagine this won’t reach you, but in case it does, please understand the faith I have in the content of this letter and the act of sending it. Yesterday a vision of you came to me while I was reading, and I cannot shake the image. I feel you near through the memory, and it makes me more happy and more miserable than I have been in years. I write simply to say that that particular moment resiliently haunts me, and the idea of repeating it makes my heart leap. I’m sorry to burden you with this torrent of adolescent emotion. Hope you are well. Love Matthew.

He folded the letter, precisely printed the address on an envelope, before sliding the sheet inside and sealing it. He opened the desk drawer to retrieve a stamp, and then firmly attached it to the crisp white envelope. He pulled on his coat and stepped out into the drizzle, the letter held tightly in his hand. He strode towards the post box, but as he went, the confidence with which he had written the letter started to fall away. Was this a good idea? Would she remember him? Would she respond to the message, or simply ignore it? She had most likely moved onto great things and didn’t want to look back.

He arrived at the post box, placed the letter on the lip of the opening and held it there while pondering his decision. His thoughts meandered between confidence and cowardice for what felt like an eternity. Looking up from the letter he saw an elderly man staring at him from across the square. He turned back to the letter, and suddenly large drops of water began to land on the envelope. The rain continued to intensify, and he turned to the old man again. He had taken shelter under the large oak tree which stood in the centre of the square. Feeling the cold water trickle down the nape of his neck and down to his shoulders he gave the envelope a push and let it drop into the box. He then put his head down, hunched into his coat, and began to wander home. His mind was still filled with the same ado as before, but he felt a sense of calm rise up in him. Upon his return home, he removed his shoes, sat down at the end of the bed, and picked up the dog-eared book once more.