Tag Archives: kiss

Sealed with a Kiss

A perfect example of her smiling with her eyes.

This weekend was hard.  I started work on the video we were making for the anniversary – 26th of March – of the day we had to start our new story, journey, losing the love of my life and my best friend.  But it’s not something I had anticipated wearing on me so heavily.  We have made it so far so quickly, the year has blown by and part of that is the fact that we had no choice but to take this year a day at a time.  No more, no less.  When the kids would ask who is going to drive them to and from school when Abbi goes to college next year, I said “we aren’t even a few months into this year, don’t dwell on it.”

Now I dwell, but this week it’s been dwelling on the past, on our story.  I found a lost and forgotten newscast.  I found a bunch of scripts and resumes of hers.  Worst, I found pictures.  Not worst, I suppose, but it hurt.  I could see her, and they were intimate, close, loving photos of of Andrea that are amazing, beautiful, and I had forgotten them.  Forgotten, you see, because Andrea didn’t want to talk about the time we spent when these photos were taken.  It’s not so much she was embarrassed, it’s that she didn’t want to relive the time and it wasn’t comfortable.

So . . . as my good friend (and by that I mean I’ve never met him and only listen on the radio wishing I could do his job) Ira Glass says on This American Life this story doesn’t contain graphic instances of sex or sexual actions, but it does acknowledge the existence of sex and talks about certain activities.  Small eyes should probably not read the next few paragraphs.

Andrea and I had fallen in love, it was deep, emotional, abiding, and amazing.  We’d spent a crazy, intense, beautiful weekend in Napa when she told me she wasn’t moving to Washington D.C.  Her Dad was not at all happy about it, and it’s not a surprise.  The very things he was probably obsessing about and concerned happened were nowhere near as horrible as he probably thought, but every night was passionate, heated, and exhausting as only the first weeks and months of a relationship can be.  We hardly slept, but we weren’t like a couple teenagers locked in a motel room.  She was adventurous and mischievous and she showed me things I’d never seen in the world.

Three months after we started dating I asked her to marry me.  I had graduated college and been offered a job as a sports producer for a community station in Aurora, Colorado.  I told her to stay in Omaha and continue her career and I’d drive or fly back every other weekend.  Her move wasn’t going to kill our relationship, this one wasn’t going to, either.  But she refused.  She wanted to go with me and though I’d be as angry as her father about my daughter moving in with someone before they were married, she did it.  We were engaged, the wedding date was set, and we saw this as an opportunity to see how well we could live with each other.  Her Dad didn’t and refused to speak with her for that period.  Not that their relationship wasn’t already strained, but he basically disowned her.  My father helped us move and though we were going to live off my checks and buy furniture as we needed it my Dad wasn’t going for it and bought us a couch and a bed to get us started.  We still have that bed frame and headboard.

The move to Denver didn’t work.  The job was awful, Andrea was lonely, she couldn’t get another job, the world was spinning out of control and she’d call me nearly every 2 hours at work wanting to meet or have me come home.  It was really hard on her and she had given up everything to be with me.

In the middle of the craziness, on New Year’s Eve, hours before going out, she was just out of the shower and had on a fitted green t-shirt and just a pair of jeans.  She was so beautiful and playful and sexy and I just couldn’t help it.  She was a perfect picture.  I’ve said before how Andrea hated pictures if she couldn’t control them.  An environment of spontaneity wasn’t something she liked unless she’d gotten ready and dressed up for the party or event.  I saw her and I was just so enamored with her, though, she agreed to let me take some pictures in our empty apartment.

Andrea had an amazing, dazzling, glowing smile.  Her entire face, her eyes, her whole being lit up when she smiled.  More than that, she had a kiss that could make me so joyous – you have no idea how much of herself you could feel in a single kiss.  When I found these pictures, it hurt just a little because I saw her there, the red lipstick and as I nodded off to sleep on Saturday night, I could feel that kiss.  I’m not sure if you’ve been kissed, I mean truly, deeply, emotionally kissed this way, and maybe you have, but I missed her so much I could feel it as I started to fall into sleep.  The gentle press of her lips, the slight texture of her lipstick against my mouth, the gently warmth of her there with me caused me to open my eyes and see she was not there.

That day, you see, she was playful, crazy, silly, and just insanely happy.  I snapped picture after picture and she showed me every side, every glorious piece of her.  She’d showered and done herself up and she toyed with me through the whole session, tossing her hair, whispering in my ear and being herself.  You don’t have to be salacious and intense all the time – just because Brad Pitt loves Angelina Jolie’s mysterious allure doesn’t mean it’s perfect – she knew that she could have allure and be silly, laughing, giggling and together.  It’s the meshing of your personalities, your souls, falling on the ground laughing that attracts you just as much.  I burned through an entire roll of film, pose after pose, her whole spread of emotions on celluloid, and told her that was it.

She smiled, grinning about how she’d told me she’d gotten ready, had her makeup on, and wasn’t going to be late for New Year’s Eve with friends all through the photos.  But as I set the camera down, kissed me in a way that made me shudder, and pulled my shirt tails out so she could put her hands on the skin of my back and we both fell to the floor, laughing and smiling.  I remember telling her that her makeup would get all messed up and she simply said she didn’t care.

That’s how burned into my brain those pictures are.  She doesn’t want to tell her kids that she lived with me before we were married, she doesn’t want them thinking less of her.  But how could they?  We truly loved each other.  We were engaged after 3 short months but married 18 long years.  We made it, defying the odds, and still in love through those years.  Sure, we had hard times but if it had been bad it wouldn’t hurt this much, either.

But the kiss.  She sealed our love the first time her lips touched mine, and for good or ill, I can still feel them, though now it’s longing to feel that touch.  Not intense desire but just strong, loving touch.  For now I settle of waking up with the memories lingering.

I can feel your body, when I’m lying in my bed . . .

Andrea - my perfect fit

When was the last time you kissed her?  I don’t care if it’s your wife or girlfriend or even that first date you went on, when was the last one?

The reason this sticks in my mind is because I took a survey for a friend’s site (www.goodenoughmother.com  will be contributing to this wonderful, well-known site starting in January) and one of the questions asked when I was happiest.

The answer wasn’t particularly hard for me, it really wasn’t.  There were others that were, things like where I see myself in the future, questions about how I see myself.  But the easiest question I had was simply when I was happiest.  It popped right into my head the moment I read the question.  Without a doubt, it was the moment I’d kissed my girlfriend – the woman who would become my wife – for the first time.

Now, it’s funny, I can remember it was not after that first “official” date, the cold and icy night we saw the band “Rush” in concert at Omaha’s Civic Auditorium or another night.  She saw the band, but to be honest, even then I knew she was humoring me.  She listened to James Taylor and Toad the Wet Sprocket.  She loved Morrissey, for Christ’s sake!  But we found common ground in bands like The Doors and she absolutely adored old Santana.  Not the newer stuff, though she didn’t mine that in later years, but put on the first 3-4 LP’s and she was in heaven.

It wouldn’t surprise me if we had kissed after that concert.  She was dressed so pretty, wearing a black coat, velvet bordering the collar and a black hood hanging off the back.  She looked amazing and we’d both gotten a beer and had a little to drink.

I do know that after that show we went out and continued our retinue of alcohol-soaked evenings, but not to the point of being inebriated.  We were simply enjoying ourselves, something I had not done in all my time up to then.  She made me feel like loosening up, being happy, and being flirtatious.

I remember the night, though, the night it happened, and I ache because I can actually feel it as well.  I know for a fact that before we’d headed to my apartment we’d been at the restaurant “Grandmothers” in Omaha, right off 90th and Dodge streets, just a few blocks from my apartment.  We loved to go there because, being college students, we could order a pitcher of margaritas and get a free plate of nachos at the bar.  We ate the greasy, horrible chips and drank the pitcher dry.  This after a full day’s work.  You have to understand, after that concert, I wasn’t sure if she’d enjoyed herself.  I was the dumb ass, after all, who picked an insanely noisy auditorium filled with 10,000 other people and meeting friends from work who were standing there as well.  It was far from an intimate evening.  She was flirtatious, but at evening’s end she went home to her apartment, which was nearby, and I hadn’t ended up there or met her friends.

But the next day, at work, we were business as usual.  She was getting ready to go on the air, I was working on a story that we had shot together, and I was so sure that I’d messed up that I was convincing myself that it was all wrong and telling myself that she was just too pretty and too outgoing to go for someone like me.  I was not anyone’s idea of Prince Charming.  Around the corner from the studio’s control room was the community bathroom.  It had a big mirror, those massive light bulbs used by makeup artists.  There was a single stall with a toilet in the corner, but that was it.  The door normally hung open and the reporters and anchors put their makeup on in that room.  If you couldn’t find them, the odds were pretty good that’s where they were.  I headed in there, told her how long her story was and just kind of stood there.

“Did you have a good time last night?”
“I had a wonderful time.”
“Oh, great!  I wasn’t sure if you liked them or not, but it was a good show.”

There was a bit of uncomfortable silence and I watched as she started to lean into the mirror, putting her mascara on her eyelashes.  She hadn’t said anything else.  I was directing that night, so I had to head in to start preproduction.

“OK . . . well, I better get the pre-pro going then.”

I had walked out, heading to the adjacent control room when I heard it.

“Well, Dave . . . ”

I nearly ran back to the bathroom, trying to keep my composure.

“Yeah?”
“I was hoping you’d ask me out again.  Was I wrong?”
“No!  I mean, absolutely.  I would love to go out.  Are you free tomorrow night?  We can have dinner!”

She hadn’t remembered that we’d met at M’s Pub in Omaha’s Old Market once before, talking about her best friend and reminiscing about small town Nebraska Christmases.  But I did.  I asked her to go there again.

We ate our dinner, both of us having pasta with a pesto sauce, grilled chicken and fresh bread.  I ordered that flourless chocolate torte and we inhaled it the dessert tasting so good.  We went and saw a movie, though I’m not sure what movie we saw.  I know, how can I remember what we ate but not that detail?  I don’t know.  Certain things stick in your memory.  A dark movie theater with no conversation and no way to look her in the eye isn’t something that is very memorable.

I DO remember that after we saw the movie, at the Indian Hills theater on 90th and Dodge as well, we went back to my apartment.  I know you’re thinking I had only one thing on my mind, but I didn’t.  I was out of my depth, way up over my head.  I had grabbed a 6-pack of Michelob and another of Miller Lite, both bottles, and had them in the fridge, knowing she’d want a drink.  I opened two bottles and we talked, all night.  The movie had ended at 11 or 12, a late evening, but we’d had dinner first.  She sat on my couch, wearing a fairly simple outfit, I suppose, but she was just so gorgeous.  She had on a silky par of pants taht felt so soft when I put my hand on her knee to make a point.  She wore a t-shirt that had what they called a “sweetheart neckline” which curved below the shoulders but met at a dip right in the center of her chest, giving just a hint of cleavage – nothing salacious, but it sure made it hard for me to concentrate on the conversation and keep my eyes on hers.

But all she had to do was laugh.  I stared at her eyes, and I noticed that they sparkled.  You’ll think I’m crazy, I know you will, but when that woman laughed, with her brilliant, beautiful smile, her eyes, a grey-blue like the sky after a thunderstorm, twinkled.  We talked about work a little, school a lot, the future, what we wanted to do, the fact that she wanted to do a semester at American University and intern at CNN, and listened to CDs.  I had a mixture of songs, Bonnie Raitt, Clapton, all sort of romantic, programmed into the player and playing on a 6-disc changer on my stereo.

Eventually the discussion turned to family.  She had a lot of good, and a lot of bad to say about her family.  The pull that they had on her was painful, I could tell.  She said how she must have been a horrible date with that kind of conversation.  I made a crack about a bad joke George Carlin had made during one of my horribly failed dates and the topic made Andrea think of her sister.  She’d been going through a tough time and it was sincerely weighing on her.  So much so that her entire mood shifted.  I felt awful, I had done my typical move, screwing up what was supposed to be a perfect night.  I moved over to her, sitting next to her, trying so hard to apologize.

“I’m so sorry, I had no idea, I would never had said anything if I’d known, I’m so sorry, Andrea.”

She leaned into me, and I could feel her body press next to mine.  She was so gentle, so soft, and she seemed to fit perfectly next to me, the curves of her body fitting perfectly as she laid her head on my shoulder.  I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to physically touch me like this, to have such a perfect fit, to be so amazing, and I was screwing it all up.

“It’s not your fault.  It’s just so hard, and I can’t do anything to help.”

I told her she had nothing to worry about, that I was sure she was doing everything right.  I put my hand on the back of her head, I felt the soft stands of hair, like silk, and I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.  I tried to be as gentle as I could, she was so soft and perfect in her movements.  And then it happened.

Andrea looked up at me, half of her laying on me, those beautiful eyes staring straight into mine.  I didn’t think I had done something right, I was sincerely trying to make her feel better.  It was like a John Hughes film.  She probably didn’t look for very long, but I studied her entire face, it was just so perfect – perfect for me.  I moved my face closer to hers so I could feel the brush of her nose next to mine, waiting to see if she would pull away.  When she didn’t . . . I kissed her.  Slowly, passionately, I kissed her, amazed again at this wonderful woman, holding her and hoping she’d never leave.

She didn’t.  Now, I know I’ve given a lot of very vivid detail here, but it’s all that happened.  It obviously wasn’t the only kiss we shared that night, but it was all we did.  By this point it had already been close to 3am, we’d been up most the night.  I fell asleep on that same couch, with her next to me, her body fitting perfectly. It was as if I’d been missing a piece of myself and never knew it wasn’t there until she had shown up.

This is the point of my story here.  When is the last time you kissed the person you love like that?  When did you look them in the eye, pausing, reading their face, so close you can feel their breath as it touches your face?  If you haven’t, if you don’t, or you can’t remember, I want you, tonight, to do it.  Go up to that person, put your hand on their cheek, or run you fingers through the back of their hair and look them in the eye.  Live your own John Hughes film and kiss them, like it’s the first time you’re doing it all over again.

You see, I don’t get to do that anymore.  I didn’t get to.  That last day, believe it or not, in the room for the last time, seeing her body there, cold and so completely opposite of the woman I’d met twenty years before, and I couldn’t even go through the motions.  They hadn’t removed the breathing tube.  She was covered in equipment, and I had yet to go home and tell my children she was gone.  Like that first kiss, I had to lean over, and gently, deeply, kiss her on the forehead, this time the tears coming off of my cheeks, and tell her goodbye.  I couldn’t tell her before, not while they worked on her, tried to keep her alive.  I looked and truly did remember that very first kiss, the press of my lips on her forehead, and I was dizzy, hoping I could see those beautiful eyes, that michievous twinkle, just one more time.  I didn’t get it.

I can’t tell you the last time I got to kiss her like that, to feel her press next to me, to touch her hair and feel her head on my shoulder.

Just like that night, where I realized that this person, this amazing, wonderful woman, was the perfect fit to me, she fit me perfectly.  Not just emotionally, but she fit next to me, her physical presence the missing puzzle piece to my life.  I go to bed and I can feel her body when I lie there.  When I close my eyes and remember that night, I can feel her, the press of her lips, the soft press of her skin, the gentle caress of her cheek as it brushed up against me.

People say that times will change, things will smooth over, that life won’t be so difficult.  But I don’t want it to go away.  I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and be OK with it, or to go back to the feeling I had before those pieces fit.  The moment I can’t close my eyes and physically feel her lips against mine is the moment that I’ve truly lost her.

So for me, just this night, this one time, find the person you love, remember that first night, that first, second or third date . . . and kiss them.  Not a peck on the cheek.  Not a quick smack that ends with “luv you.”

Kiss them.  Mean it, feel it, and tell them.  Tell them you love them and that you miss this.  Because take it from me, it’s just like the song says: I can feel her body when I’m lying in my bed.  There’s too much confusion going ’round through my head.

Give yourself that memory – not the vision, the muscle memory, the feeling, the press, the touch.  You never know when you’ll need to close your eyes and go back there yourself, because one day, it may very well be the only thing you have left.