//circa August 2017
Cicadas chirping overhead, one sentence plays over and over in her mind: a kiss is a conversation.
She thought of this sentence when she was staring at some Picasso painting of a woman, after reading a quote on the wall said by Picasso himself, that women are machines for suffering.
Thoughts of his kisses are never far from her stream of consciousness. The cicadas’ individual chirps all blend together in a grand orchestra, their volume increasing and decreasing, as if they were being conducted by some grand musician.
Yes, a kiss is a conversation, just the way the cicadas talk to each other in the tree tops, hidden, but their message known to all. There are ebbs and flows, tempo in flux, never a monotone function. She thinks of his bed, of the night of the first kiss, and the morning after, when she opened her eyes to the dialogue, pressing her lips against his to bring him into the conversation after hours of sleeping silence. He answers, spreading his fingers through her hair, to the back of her head.
There is tension in the conversation, met with a small victory on his behalf. He climbs onto of her, smiling down. They laugh: what a very good point he made.
She offers up a counterargument he can’t refuter, they tumblr, and she ends up atop him, gazing upon his soft skin, the small hairs growing out of his chin. And the discussion continues fervently, passionately, jovially.
Real words break their silent dance, explanations of why their tango must end. So she sits up, allowing him to pass by, but soon learns he is not quite done with this intriguing topic. Another victory on his behalf: he presses her up against the wall, and she counters by wrapping her legs around him. They stay on this topic for a few more minutes, before it is decided the conversation really must end.
He climbs down the stairs, and she follows. He is almost out the door, when he turns back, and the loud crescendo ending to this piece is a peck on the lips, with “arrivederci” and smiles.
Yes, a kiss is a conversation, just as an orchestra of cicadas talks to you through a hot August afternoon. A conversation without language.