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CURRENT PROJECT :: THE KISS

Installment 1 :: September 28, 2005

Jeremy Blume found the kiss at the end of the day, just as he was getting ready to go home from work. It sat in a brown paper bag on his office chair. A few minutes before five he’d gone to the men’s room, and when he came back to get his car keys and wallet the bag was waiting for him. There was no note attached. Just the kiss.

Jeremy scanned the maze of cubicles around him. No one seemed to be watching for a reaction.

A joke, he thought. That’s what this was, an office prank by one of his coworkers. Every now and then one of them, usually Frank or Melissa, would kid him. “Which hair did you say you got cut?” Or, the time he’d bought a pair of dress shoes, “It’s about time you stopped loafing around.” The ribbing seemed good-natured – nothing like the “Acne Construction Zone” jokes he’d endured in junior and senior high school.

Jeremy sat down and peered into the bag again. The kiss was a soft, delicate pink. It looked fresh, with only a slight hint of dryness around the edges that seemed more apprehensive than insincere. There was a pinched uncertainty to the lips, a shy vulnerability that bordered on fragility.

Jeremy jiggled the bag. The kiss wiggled – it had the consistency of grapefruit Jell-O – then steadied.

What to do? He couldn’t just leave it next to the coffee pot or on one of the tables in the lunchroom. That seemed rude – mean, even. He didn’t want to reject the sender of the kiss. What if the person really was interested in him? Other than his mother, he had never been the serious object of anyone’s affection. He’d always been the one observing from a safe distance, too nervous to say or do anything.

A tense but oddly pleasant thrill ran through him. He carefully folded the bag and took it home.

Installment 2 :: October 15, 2005

In his living room, munching leftover pepperoni pizza from a take-out box, Jeremy studied the kiss in its brown paper wrapper.

Who could it belong to?

The shape and size of the lips ruled out Melissa; they were too small.  Sandra only wore red lipstick.  Janet’s lips were always chapped.  Nicole’s were freckled.  Who ever heard of freckled lips?

Who did that leave?  A lot of people, mostly in Sales or Marketing, people he never talked to except to say Hi in passing on the way to the lunchroom or the rest room.  Annette.  Iris.  Morgan.  Nichelle.  Did the lips look like any of theirs?  He couldn’t be sure.  He tried to picture them, hair color, eye color, size and weight.  Except for a few vague details he couldn’t remember exactly what each one looked like. He should have paid more attention.  But he’d been wary of staring, of giving the wrong impression.

Maybe the person had disguised the kiss, changed its shape or the color to make it less recognizable.  Or maybe it belonged to someone outside the office, a friend of somebody he worked with.  That didn’t seem likely.  He didn’t get out much.  He’d never met any of his coworker’s friends or wives.  He avoided the Christmas party, the summer picnic.  No, it had to be someone in the office.

He needed advice.  But who?

After a while he called up Eric, who worked as a programmer in R&D.  During this year’s NCAA March Madness basketball tournament, Jeremy had helped Eric run the office pool.

“Kind of late to be calling,” Eric said.  “What’s up?”  His voice sounded easy-going, like he’d downed a few beers.

“Someone left me a kiss.”

“You’re kidding.”

“On my chair,” Jeremy said.  “Right before I went home.”

“No shit.  Who’s it from?”

“I don’t know.  That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Gotcha.”  Eric sounded sympathetic.  “I can see where that might be a problem.  What kind of kiss is it?”

Jeremy frowned.  He stared into the bag at the kiss.  “I’m not sure.”  Did it look sweet?  Smirky?  Brazen?  Shy?  “I can’t really tell.”

“Okay.” There was a pause.  “What’d you do to the person?  That should give you some idea.”

“I didn’t do anything!”  Jeremy thought back over the past few days and weeks.  “If I did, I don’t know what it was.”

“You must have some idea of who sent it,” Eric said.
“Not really.”

“Come on, bro.”  A conspiratorial note sidled into Eric’s voice.  “You can tell me.  My lips are sealed.”

“I don’t know who sent it.  I swear.”

His radar had always been bad when it came to this kind of thing.  He didn’t trust his instincts.  He was too afraid of making a mistake, of picking up the wrong signals and embarrassing himself.  It had happened once before.  Angelina.  His stomach curled in on itself, like a slug sprinkled with salt.

Never again.

“You want me to ask around in the morning?” Eric said.  “See what I can find out?”

“No!”

“You sure?  I can be very discreet when I want to be.”

Jeremy ran a hand through his thinning hair.  This wasn’t helping.  “That’s okay,” he said.  “I’ll take it from here.  Thanks.”

“Well,” Eric said.  “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.  I’m here for you, man.”

By the time Jeremy hung up it was getting late, after eleven, but he wasn’t tired.  He was wired.  He couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.  Who wore that lipstick?  Beth?  Amber?  He wracked his brains.  What would the kiss feel like? he wondered.  What would it taste like?  The question gnawed at him deep into the night.

Finally, around midnight, he crunched down the sides of the bag as far as he could.

The kiss perched at the bottom of the sack.  It looked ready and waiting, expectant, almost.

He wet his lips and leaned forward, placing his mouth inside the crumpled sides of the bag.  Without realizing it he’d closed his eyes, as if he were kissing a real person.  He forced his eyes open. The kiss huddled inches from his mouth.  Warmed by his breath the lips parted a fraction, the way the petals of a flower uncurled.

Stop it! he told himself.  Who was he kidding?  Get real.  It wasn’t going to happen. Who did she think she was anyway, putting him in this position?  It wasn’t fair.  She had no right!

His hands clenched the bag in sudden anger.  What the hell, he decided.  If that was what she wanted, he’d give it to her.  See how she liked it.

Fingers aching, he touched his lips to the kiss.

The kiss recoiled.  It grew small and hard, as if splashed by cold water.  His usual effect on women.  Then, just as suddenly, the kiss swelled.  Hungrily, greedily, it began to suckle.

Startled, Jeremy yanked his head up and straightened.  Instead of dropping off, the kiss remained attached to his mouth.  It clung to him like a sock to a pant leg.

He blew at it several times, the way he would a mosquito or a loose strand of hair. The kiss squirmed.  Jeremy swiped at his lips, hoping to dislodge it.  He pinched the kiss between his thumb and forefinger and pulled, gently at first, and then harder.  In response the kiss tightened its grip.

Jeremy felt lightheaded. His breath came in short, rapid gasps. His knees wobbled and the floor spun.

I’m hyperventilating, he thought.

He reached for the bag and put it over his face.  The wrinkled paper expanded and contracted, wheezing like a broken accordion.

Calm down, he told himself.  Don’t panic.

Five minutes later, his vision blurred and darkened around the edges from lack of oxygen. He crumpled to the floor.  The bag slipped from his face as his hands dropped to his lap.  Saliva, tasting of plums, trickled from his lips.

How did that old song go?  Your lips…juicy…like Louisiana plums…  He couldn’t quite remember.

Soap, he thought.  That was the ticket.

Jeremy hurried down the hall to the bathroom.  He scoured his face with antibacterial gel, and then peered at himself in the mirror.  His lips looked puffy.  The swelling was a little tender from all the scrubbing, but not hard or painful to the touch.

Returning to the kitchen, he filled a Zip-Loc bag with ice cubes, wrapped it in a washcloth to prevent freezer burn, and applied the improvised compress.  Ten minutes on, ten minutes off.  Something like that. He couldn’t remember the exact rule of thumb.  The main thing was to apply cold and pressure.

By nine-thirty the swelling had doubled and he could no longer feel his lips.

Like coming back from the dentist after a filling or a root canal, he thought.  They felt anesthetized, elephantine.

It had to be some sort of allergic reaction.  Nothing else acted that quickly.

He searched online medical resources for skin conditions.  He found information on any number of diseases – a benign growth called pyogenic granuloma, which looked horrible, caught his attention – but nothing conclusive.  It might be this, it might be that. It was hard to tell from the pictures and the descriptions.

Cancer, he thought.  Carcinoma.  The word hung over him, a shadow ripped from the night.

Installment 3 :: November 12, 2005

In the morning, his lips didn’t feel any less tumorous than they had the night before. But at least they weren’t any worse.  They still felt feverish, though, warm to the touch, as if they might now be infected.

A few more hours, he decided.  If things hadn’t improved by then, he could always go to the doctor.  He thought about calling in sick.  But there was a new software release shipping soon, and it would look bad if he wasn’t there to troubleshoot.

“Good morning,” Clarissa, the receptionist, chirped as he walked through the front entrance.

“Good morning,” he said.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowed.  “You’re not sick, are you?  You sound stuffed up, or something.”

On the way to his desk he felt people’s eyes on him.  Furtive glances.  Andrea, the Administrative Assistant, peeked at him from her cubicle.  But when he went to meet her gaze it darted away.  Her hands fumbled skittishly as she made a pretense of straightening pencils and organizing Post-Its.

Hunched over his keyboard in his cubicle, he imagined he could hear his coworkers whispering behind his back.  In his head it sounded like the faint crackling he’d heard, snorkeling in Hawaii.  Fish chewing on coral.  That’s what the sound was.  That’s what he was hearing now.  Voices gnawing at him, crunching up his thoughts.

They knew.  Somehow, word about the kiss had gotten around.  Probably all of her friends at the office were in on it, encouraging her.  They might even have goaded her into it.  She could be as uncomfortable as he was with the whole thing, wishing it had never happened.  Wishing she could take the kiss back.

“Hey, buddy!”

Jeremy jumped at the voice.  A hand clapped him on the shoulder.  “So, I made some inquiries,” Eric said, his voice low and conspiratorial.  “Very discreet. I’m on good terms with a couple of the girls over in Sales.”
Jeremy sagged under the weight of the hand.  It held him firmly in place, trapping him.

Eric put his lips close to Jeremy’s left ear.  “Amy,” Eric said.  His breath stank of tobacco and peppermint gum.

Jeremy blinked.  “Amy?”  It came out slurred, closer to Aywee.

“You had no idea?”

Jeremy shook his head.  His tongue felt dry.  He reached for his coffee cup, but his hand shook and he withdrew it, afraid of scalding himself.

Amy.  He would never have guessed, with her apple-scented hair and wire-frame glasses.  Quiet.  She didn’t seem like the type.  He occasionally saw her in the lunchroom with three or four women from accounting.  She’d smiled at him a number of times, bird-quick flashes.  What did a smile mean, really?  People smiled all the time for any number of reasons.  You could read whatever you wanted into a smile.  A smile wasn’t proof of anything.  She’d never said a word to him, not so much as a peep.

“Go for it, stud.”  Eric’s hand tightened briefly.  “I’m telling you.  She’s two years out of a divorce.  A sure thing” – Eric winked – “if you know what I mean.”

#

During lunch hour, he scheduled an appointment with his primary care physician, a Doctor Hendershott, who he’d never visited before.  So far, the swelling hadn’t spread.  It seemed confined to his lips, which remained bloated and dead to the touch.

Was there such a thing as lip cancer?  There must be.  There was a cancer for just about everything:  mouth, jaw, throat.  Why not the lips?

The doctor withheld judgment.  He poked and prodded.  He examined the puffiness through a magnifying glass, and then stepped back.  “I’d like to take a biopsy,” the doctor said.  He adjusted his glasses.  “To be on the safe side.  I also want to do a complete blood workup.  In the meantime, I think we should put you on an antibiotic and antihistamine.”

“You don’t know what it is,” Jeremy said, “do you?”  He spoke slowly, careful to enunciate.

“Not immediately, no,” the doctor admitted. He was stocky man with straw-colored bristles for a mustache and an earnest slouch.  He worked out of an old Victorian house that had been converted into an office.  The unconventional setup left Jeremy feeling ill at ease. Was this a doctor whose judgment he could trust? The man seemed eccentric.

“What about a kiss?” Jeremy asked.

“A kiss?”

“Could it carry some kind of disease?”

“It’s possible,” the doctor concurred.  “Anything is possible.”

“What about a neurological disease?” he asked. “That might explain the numbness.”

“At this point,” the doctor cautioned, “it’s best not to jump to conclusions.”

“How soon will you know?”

The doctor massaged his jaw.  “We should get the lab results in a few days.  In the meantime get some rest.  Take a few days off and call me if your condition changes.”

#

That afternoon, as Jeremy lay on the sofa in a Benadryl and Amoxicillin-induced haze, his thoughts drifted to Amy.

How much of a chance did he have with her, realistically?  And how much of her interest in him was wishful thinking on his part?

He needed time to think. He needed to unknot his feelings, tease apart the threads so he could study each one individually.

If she wasn’t interested, why leave him the kiss?

Forget it, he told himself.  It wasn’t going to happen.  Better safe than sorry.  Especially with the possibility of a sexual harassment complaint looming over him if he was wrong.  The company enforced a strict policy.

No, he decided.  It wasn’t worth it.

#

“The biopsy came back negative.”  Doctor Hendershott sounded cheerful over the phone.  He was the bearer of good news.

“Now what?” Jeremy said.

“Now we move on,” the doctor said.  “We do more tests and continue to narrow the possibilities.”

“It’s spreading,” Jeremy said.  He lay in bed, an icepack pressed despondently to the left side of his face.

“Spreading how?”

“When I woke up this warning I looked like a chipmunk. The antihistamines and the antibiotics aren’t working.  I think I should see a specialist.”

Installment 4 :: January 28, 2006

“Leeches?” Jeremy said.

Doctor Hendershott nodded.  “I know it sounds disgusting.  People have all sorts of bad associations with leeches.  Mostly from movies like The Leech Woman.  But leeches are one of the best, most effective ways to reduce swelling and restore circulation in necrotic tissue.”

“Nequatic?”  His pronunciation was getting worse.

Doctor Hendershott clasped his hands together.  “The nerves and tissue of your lips are dying.  That’s why you’ve lost sensation in them.”

“Like leprosy.”

“Yes.  But it’s not leprosy.  Leprosy is caused by a bacillus, mycobacterium leprae, and takes decades to spread.   Your condition appears to be more closely related to venous congestion, a kind of pooling of excess blood when normal circulation becomes blocked or impeded in the small blood vessels.”

Jeremy’s head spun.  The edges of his vision constricted to a dim, murky tube.

“Here” – Dr. Hendershott gripped him by the arm to keep him from toppling – “sit down.  Close your eyes for a moment.  Make yourself comfortable.  I will be right back.”

Venous congestion.  The blood in his lips was backing up.  Constipated.

The door to the exam room opened and closed.  “Feeling better?”  Dr. Hendershott asked.

Jeremy swallowed – “I think so” – and opened his eyes.

The doctor carried a small plastic dish, partially filled with a clear liquid that appeared to be water.  A brown-colored ribbon, about three inches long, rippled in the thin layer of water.  Jeremy stared at the creature, mesmerized.  It was like watching a cobra sway in front of a snake charmer.

 “Medicinal leeching is really quite common and safe,” Dr. Hendershott was saying, a kind of rambling monologue designed as much to lull him into complacency as to inform him.  “It wasn’t always that way, of course.  There was a time when leeching was prescribed for any ailment, everything from obesity to dysentery.  Even hemophilia, if you can believe that.  These days, of course, we’re much less ignorant and indiscriminate.”

Jeremy watched the leech wriggle as Dr. Hendershott took a pair of plastic forceps from a stainless steel canister.

“Today leeches are most typically used to restore circulation in tissue grafts and in reattached appendages, such as fingers and toes.  But they are also used in the treatment of arthritis and reconstructive breast surgery.  What makes them so effective is their unique combination of vasodilators, anticoagulants, and anti-inflammatory enzymes.”

“Will it hurt?” Jeremy asked.

“You might feel a faint prick.”  The wriggling intensified as Dr. Hendershott held the forceps over the dish. “But the leech’s saliva also contains a powerful anesthetic that eliminates any pain.  Most people don’t notice a thing.”

The doctor deftly plucked the leech from the dish.  It squirmed hungrily.

Jeremy’s stomach recoiled.  “There must be some other option,” he said.

“Certainly there are alternatives.  We could try lancing.  Steroids.  Anticoagulants.  The question is, are they any better?  In this case, no.  You either want to get rid of the swelling, or you don’t.”

“How did the blood vessels get clogged?” Jeremy asked.

“That’s a good question.  One we will investigate later, after we get the congestion under control.”

“There’s no definite cause?”

“Stop stalling.”

Jeremy cleared his throat.  “Okay.  I’m ready.”  The sooner he got this over with, the better.

“It might be best if you close your eyes.  And your mouth.  We don’t want the leech going where it’s not supposed to.”

Jeremy squinched his lips together, then breathed in and out several times through his nose.

“Here we go,” the doctor said.

There was no pain.  He’d already lost all sensation in his lips.  He hadn’t considered that.

Jeremy couldn’t see the leach.  But he could feel it, dangling like a sinker-weighted fishhook.  It tugged his mouth into a lopsided pout.

The doctor dumped the water from the dish and handed it to him.  “Hold this under your chin.”

“How long?” Jeremy asked, afraid to move his lips.  The leech jiggled, but held fast.

“Not long.   A leech can only drink a couple of teaspoons of blood during a feeding.  We should see some immediate improvement. But you might require several treatments to see permanent results.”

Fifteen minutes later, the leech let go and dropped into the dish with a soft plop.  It lay there, as fat and moist as a fresh Cuban cigar.

Dr. Hendershott poured a small amount of rubbing alcohol into the dish – “To kill it,” he explained – then turned his attention to the wound. “Much better.” He taped a compress to the side of Jeremy’s mouth.  “You can take this off in a few hours, when the bleeding has stopped.”

“What then?”

“Call me if you experience any complications.  Otherwise, come back again in two days for another treatment.”

#

That night, Jeremy dreamed of Amy.  He imagined her as the leech woman from the movie, seeking not blood but affection.

Like a leech she could live for a long time without feeding.  Up to two years.  That was how long she’d been divorced.  But now she was starving, close to death.  In the dream her mouth was perfectly round.  When she smiled, she revealed a Y-shaped pattern of serrated, knife-sharp teeth that no one else could see.  At least, no one else in the office seemed to notice.  Her true nature was visible only to him.

“Why me?” he wanted to know.

“If you keep your feelings bottled up,” Amy said, “they’re just going to fester.  Sooner or later they’ll become toxic. When that happens, the poison will spread and you’ll die.”

In the dream, all of these pent up feelings were a lump in his throat – a malignant tumor that could metastasize at any moment.

“I’m afraid,” he said.

“How do you think I feel?” she asked.

Jeremy blinked.  He had no idea how she felt.  He had never considered the situation from her point of view.  It hadn’t even crossed his mind.  Her feelings were her problem, not his.  He wasn’t responsible for them.

“We would be helping each other,” she said.  A note of desperation crept into her circular mouth.  “It doesn’t have to be forever, if that’s what you’re worried about. Nothing is forever.  I know that.”

“Will it hurt?”

“That’s the chance we have to take.”

“Go away,” he said.  He buried his head in his hands.  “Leave me alone.”

Her teeth gnashed in a sawing motion.  “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m trapped.  You won’t feed me and you won’t let me go.”

Installment 5 :: March 6, 2006

He woke wrapped in sweat, the sheets twisted around him. His lips felt distended again, horribly bloated after less than a day.

I’m going to die, Jeremy thought. He felt feverish, his mind curdled.

The swelling, congestion, whatever it was, would spread to the rest of him. There was no stopping it. No amount of blood-letting would ease the buildup.

He dry-heaved, and his mind retched up the dream image of the leech woman. A thick, pasty bitterness filled his mouth.

No, he thought. I don’t want it to end. Not like this.

The air in the room stank. He couldn’t breathe. He was on the verge of choking. What time was it? Ten in the morning? Four in the afternoon? He couldn’t tell. It was raining. The windows were sheets of water, the light coming through them as damp and featureless as clouds.

He fumbled out of bed fully dressed. He’d fallen asleep in his pants and shirt. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his shoes. The clock radio on his dresser blinked 11:42.

It wasn’t too late. He still had time.

He stepped from the house, into a steady deluge, and scampered for the hermetic comfort of his car. Hurtling down the highway, shadows from the wind-driven droplets on the windshield crawled across the dashboard and seatbacks.

He pulled into his usual space in the office lot and switched off the engine. Steam curled off the hood. Metal cooled. The windows fogged. He rubbed at the cataract gray with his shirt sleeve and stared at the silver windows of his office building while he tried to work up the nerve to confront the leech woman.

He had a few things he wanted to say to her – a few things he needed to get out of his system. They were in there. Somewhere.

Jeremy stepped from the car. He needed something to drink – cold water or juice – to dissolve the dry clot in his mouth and throat. He started across the parking lot toward the side entrance and lunchroom, and then stopped. Rain ticked on his shoes and spat in his hair.

What was he afraid of? That was the question. There was no reason to be afraid. He hadn’t committed to anything. He hadn’t offered any promises. It didn’t make sense. He shouldn’t be nervous. And yet he was.

I’m tired of being afraid, Jeremy thought. He fisted his hands and forced one foot in front of the other.

He’d been frightened of one thing or another his entire life. As a child, he couldn’t call a store to see if it had a toy in stock, even though the person on the end of the line didn’t know him from Adam. He was afraid to ask directions, question the price on a store receipt, or complain about a dirty spoon at a restaurant. It was easier to keep quiet and mind his business. Pathetic.

Amy was waiting for him in the lunchroom.

At least that was what it seemed like. For some reason, she’d taken an early lunch and sat at a table by herself. A take-out salad from MacDonald’s sat front of her. There was no one with her. They were alone.

It was all he could do not to stop in his tracks and back out of the room. What kind of signal would that send, kiss or no kiss? Somehow, he managed to keep his feet moving. But he couldn’t feel himself walking. He was someplace else outside his body.

He made it to the refrigerator, opened the door, and felt her look up from the salad to where he stood, bent over, with his back to her.

What now?

He pulled out a diet Snapple, straightened, and closed the refrigerator door. Now was the time. This was it. The moment of truth.

He turned.

The lenses of her glasses flashed. What color were her eyes behind the glare? Blue? Green? He couldn’t remember. His mind was a blank.

Say something, he thought. Anything.

The moment stretched – four beats, five – until it dangled like a frayed thread. He could feel himself starting to unravel.

Take it back! he wanted to tell her. I don’t want it!

Instead his mouth hardened. He stalked over to where she sat. He stood at the side of the table, glaring down at her. Her glasses winked. Soft lashes batted against the thick lenses.

“Jeremy?” she said. “What is it? Are you all right?”

His head spun. His heart pounded; it hammered frantically, as if beating against a locked door.

“Jeremy!”

He found himself on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Chrome chair legs glinted around him. He couldn’t seem to get enough air. His shirt collar was cinched noose-tight around his neck.

“Help!” Amy shouted. “Someone! Call 911!” Her voice was tinny and far away. Feet scuffled and chair legs scraped.

She knelt next to him. Her hand slipped under the back of his head. Long fingers caressed his hair. Then she leaned over him. She brought her face close. She pressed her O-shaped mouth to his and breathed into him.

Dr. Hendershott was right – there was no pain, no hint of teeth. Only a pleasant numbness.

Jeremy shut his eyes, and relaxed. He inhaled deeply. He let the scent of apples fill him and did not worry about returning the kiss.

THE END