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He promptly swept me up and carried me to the pool house, the gallantry of the gesture intensifying the beauty of the kiss. Never did I expect such passion from an investment banker. He was shy, I was told by the friend who’d set us up.
I kept this in mind after he’d driven me home, as I sat in his car waiting for my kiss. “All that time for that.” No kisses are better than bad kisses. There is the I-am-terrified kiss, which is brief and unimaginative, and the I-have-issues kiss, which is frenetic and overly imaginative.
I had forgotten that kissing could be so good, and I remember thinking, “Divorce rocks!
” Living in Manhattan makes kissing tricky, though.
Subsequent kisses are irrelevant, no longer a mystery imagined. I was woefully out of practice after my divorce and nervous about the concept of dating.
I listened as he prattled on and on about the latest developments in molecular biology. I suppose I had frightened him into action, but his kiss was a terrible bore. The noncommittal kiss lacks luster and zeal, and the unaware kiss is just plain wet.