Kissing Booth by Kami Ejiogu

Each year, on a solemn Friday at hours most would be sleeping, I attend a kissing booth.

The line is always vast, with people from all walks of life lined up, eager to kiss the subject at the end of the passage.

In the large, dim room, with simple black drapes adorning the walls and statues

I notice my neighbor, an older gentleman recently widowed, desperate for some solace in a quick kiss shared with someone who would never reject it.

I spot a young girl I tutor, never quite confident in the confusing equations of slopes and the mystery of an unknown variable.

She too is in line, perhaps not truly understanding the weight of sealing a promise, 

of sharing a soft confession with the touch of her lips upon another’s.

I cower my head as my father and mother go before me in line, bowing their heads before gently lowering their lips, placing a somber kiss before slowly turning around to their seat,

perhaps longing they could each linger longer in the figure’s embrace, perhaps longing to be held and their worries kissed away.

Then I step forward, kneeling.

I graze my rough fingers on the grooves of the wood, feeling the chipped furrows, evidence to the many years it has spent kissing hundreds, thousands, comforting the needy and lonely with just one kiss. 

I let my lips fall on the wood, the red-tinted lipgloss I had applied just an hour earlier leaving its seemingly permanent mark and tainting the lumber.

Finally, I lift my eyes to him, smiling and bowing before turning back to my seat.

My own troubles have faded away with that small exchange at the kissing booth.

They have faded with a simple kiss shared with the Cross.