More Than a Kiss (9 page)

First
Kiss

Amy
parked her new Smart car right in front of the Portland Art Museum, marveling
over how it could fit anywhere.  It was bright yellow and cute to boot.  She
loved how it complimented her new Tardis-blue Converse high-top sneakers.  She
had also followed Isabel’s gypsy advice and purchased a dozen do-rags to wear
while at work.  She felt they gave her flair.

Amy
hurried up the museum steps, her mind blank, her heart pounding, her body
tingly. She was so deliriously happy at the prospect of spending the afternoon
with Jordan that she didn't even feel tired or sleepy; she felt exhilarated.

She
was barely inside the lobby when Jordan appeared in front of her.  She was
wearing a pair of baggy plaid shorts (she had shaved legs, thank God) and a
plain white T-shirt.  She had on sandals and her toenails were painted red. 
She was adorable.

"I
hope I'm not late," Amy said for want of anything more original to say.

"C'mon,"
Jordan said, taking her by the hand and pulling her toward the escalator.

"What's
the rush?"

"No
rush.  I just want you to see what I found."

Jordan
pulled her up the escalator, taking the steps two at a time, and down the wide
hallway.  She pulled Amy into a room and stepped directly in front of her. 
"Close your eyes.”

"We're
in a museum," Amy said, "I thought the whole idea was to see
things."

"You
will, you will, trust me.  Close your eyes."

Amy
did as told.  Jordan took her hands and slowly walked her forward.  Then Jordan’s
hands were on Amy's shoulders and pressing
gently down.  She whispered, "Sit."

Amy
sat.  She felt Jordan sit beside her.

"Okay,
now you can open your eyes.”

Amy
opened her eyes.  She saw a large painting, covering most of the wall.  It was
whirls upon swirls of bright, thick paint.  Bold strokes of every color
imaginable.  A mass of writhing, curving, serpentine vividness.

"What
do you see?" Jordan asked.

Amy
looked at Jordan.  "Is this a trick question?"

Jordan
shook her head.  "No, not at all.  I'm just wondering what you see."

Amy
looked back at the painting.  She tilted her head to the right.  "I don't
know.  It's interesting in a messy kind of way."

"Keep
looking."

She
looked at Jordan.  Jordan was clearly enraptured with the painting.

Amy
looked at it again, determined to see something.  She tilted her head to the
left.  She still couldn't discern any shapes, any type of anything.  She
thought it looked like a colorful tornado.  Or maybe a bunch of different
paints being flushed down a toilet.  Or a rainbow caught in a whirlpool.

She
looked back at Jordan and studied her profile as she gazed at the painting. 
Amy asked, "What do
you
see?"

Jordan
took her time answering, "Ecstasy.  Surprise.  Gratitude.  Joy.  Elation.
Happiness."

"All
that?"

"And
more.  So much more."

"Hunh,"
Amy said.  Clearly she wasn't up to snuff on modern art.  She looked back to
the painting and tried to see what Jordan had described.  "But those are
feelings."

"True."

"So,
you're telling me that you're seeing emotions when you look at this
painting?" Amy asked.

Jordan
looked at Amy and smiled.  "That's what art does.  It
shows
you
emotions."

“Oh.”

"Close
your eyes again," Jordan said.

Amy
closed her eyes, wondering where Jordan was going to take her this time.  But
instead of taking her by the hand, Jordan kissed her.

Amy
savored the feel of Jordan's lips on hers – the tingling, ecstatic, joyful sensation
of a simple kiss.

"You
can open your eyes now," Jordan said.

Amy
did.  She followed Jordan's gaze back to the painting.  And this time, the
colors swelled to life.  They danced and twirled across the canvas.  And she
felt it.  The feeling was tiny at first, no more than a pinprick.  It centered
in her chest then grew larger and larger.  It was warm.  Was she glowing?  She
felt as if she were lit from the inside like one of those paper Chinese
lanterns. 

Amy
didn’t know how to describe it.  She had no words for this feeling.  It was
more. 
More. 
So much more than a kiss.

“Maybe
I do see a little something,” Amy whispered with her eyes still glued to the
painting.

Car, Duct Tape, Art

Jordan
and Amy stood on the museum steps, each wanting to spend more time with the
other, each unwilling to let the afternoon go.

Amy
said, "I can't believe I've never visited here before."

"I
come here all the time.  At least once a week.  I find it very inspiring. 
Especially the children's art.  They have such freedom.” Jordan led the way
down the steps and to the bicycle rack where she had locked up her bike.

Amy
said, "So, when you're painting, which comes first, the color or the
emotion behind it?"

"It's
hard to explain.  Colors can make me feel, but feelings make me see colors. 
It's a matter of translating the feeling into color and onto the canvas. You've
heard of the expression 'seeing red?'"

"Sure,
when somebody's angry," Amy said.

Suddenly,
Jordan's face turned a bright crimson.  She clenched her fists and spun in a
circle, punching the air, stomping her feet, and saying, "Damndamndamn!  I
can't believe it!"

Amy
laughed at Jordan's antics.  "I know what anger looks like," she
said.  "You don't have to show me."

"I'm
not showing you.  I
am
angry!" Jordan said.  "Look!" She
pointed at her lime green Trek bicycle.  Both tires were flat.

"Oh
my God," Amy gasped.  She moved in for a closer look.  "The tires
have been slashed.  Who would've done such a thing?"

"I
have a good idea." Jordan fumed and paced away from the bike.  Petronella
had obviously followed her again.  When she saw her kissing Amy, she'd taken
out her revenge on the bike.

 Jordan
wiped her hand over her face, took a shaky breath and collected herself. 
"Sorry I lost it like that."  Now, she was embarrassed.  She didn’t
want Amy to think she needed anger management classes, but this clandestine
vandalism was getting old.  Petronella had
demolished
her car, now her bike.  What was next?  She’d be reduced to roller blades?

"I'll
give you a ride home," Amy said.

"Okay,"
Jordan said.  “Thank you.”

Jordan
carried the bike, following Amy to her car.  Jordan scrunched her face up when
she stared at the car.  “This is it?”

“Yes.”

“I
like it,” Jordan said, leaning her bike up against the parking meter.  She
walked around the car.  “It’s adorable.”

“It
doesn’t have a trunk exactly.”

“Oh,
that’s all right.  We’ll just duct tape the bike to the roof,” Jordan said.

“Really?”

“Sure. 
I’ll line the part that touches the roof so it won’t get sticky.”

“But
I don’t have any duct tape,” Amy said.

“I
do,” Jordan said, pulling a roll of hot pink tape from a small leather bag that
hung behind her bicycle seat.

“Wow,”
Amy said.  “Maybe I should buy stock in duct tape.”

In
a matter of minutes, Jordan had her bike secured to the top of the car.  Amy
backed away from the car and studied it.  “It looks like art.  Like some kind
of modern art sculpture.”

“It
really does, doesn’t it?” Jordan said.

A
Japanese man stopped by the car, whipped out a camera and took a picture. 
Several other pedestrians stopped and gazed at the car.  “Amazing,” one man
said.  “It’s a very interesting juxtaposition on the evolutionary drama between
humans and their various modes of transportation.”

Amy
giggled.

Jordan
shrugged.  “You can turn anything into art.”

Soon,
there was a large crowd of people gathered around the car.  Cameras flashed,
people talked excitedly, throwing around phrases like
social commentary
and
melding of reality and art
.  A pencil-thin woman wearing glasses
emerged from the crowd, ran up the museum steps, stopped, turned, and flashed
off several photos of the car and bike.  Then she pulled a steno pad out of her
purse and called out, “Who is the artist?  Does anybody know the artist?”

Jordan
stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at Amy.  “She is the artist.”

Amy
playfully slugged Jordan’s arm.  Jordan whispered, “Just go along with it.”

The
woman hurried over to Amy.  “How wonderful to meet you.  Do you mind giving me
an interview?  I write for
The Oregonian. 
I would love to feature you
in our paper as an up-and-coming artist.  What’s your name?”

The
crowd of people surrounded Jordan and Amy, cutting off any easy escape route.

Amy
eyes widened.  She looked to Jordan for help.   Jordan stepped up to the plate
and told the reporter, “Sorry, but she’s quite shy.  You know artists and their
peculiarities.  Her name is Amy Stewart.  This installation piece is entitled
First
Kiss
.

“What
an unusual title,” the reporter said.  “Is there a meaning behind it?”

Jordan
raised an eyebrow at Amy, openly daring her to continue the charade.  Amy accepted
the dare and spoke up, “It’s the melding of… it’s about… Well, look it’s a car,
right?  A tiny car that is as much like a bike as it is a car.  And you have a
bike.  A wounded bike.  Its tires are slashed and it may never… transport…
again.  Until it meets the car.  Then through the power of duct tape it is
carried by the car.  So, it’s like kindred spirits.  Meeting.”

“Huh,”
the reporter said.  She turned and studied the car and bike for a moment.  She
popped off another couple of pictures with her camera.  Finally, she said, “I
get it.  It’s like they’re kissing, right?”

When
she turned back around, Jordan and Amy were kissing.  She got a picture of
that, too.

Aunt Jemima

“You
look like a sexy Aunt Jemima,” Chad said, standing in Amy’s office doorway.

Amy
had been hoping her do-rag would turn him off.  Instead, here he was remarking
on it.  Not only remarking on it but flirting with it.  “It’s the new me,” she
said.

This
morning, Amy had chosen a black do-rag bandana with a yellow day-glow
Ms. Pac-Man on it.  She felt it embraced her
burgeoning sense of feminism.

“I
heard rumors about your new wardrobe.”  Chad came around the desk and peeked
under it.  “They
are
Dr. Who shoes.”

Amy
whacked him in the head as she opened the desk drawer.

“Ouch!” 
He rubbed his forehead that now had the imprint of a tiny keyhole.  “Is this
still about the cheese?”

“Cheese?”
Amy said.  She had no idea what he was talking about.

“You
know the other night when you were throwing cheese and crackers around.”

“Oh
that.  No, I just don’t like you looking under my desk uninvited.”

Amy
got up abruptly and he quickly stepped back.  She almost laughed.  He actually
looked intimidated by her.  This was new.  Maybe a brand new pair of shoes did
improve one’s self esteem.  She might need a few more pairs.  “I have rounds to
do,” she said, “I assume you have the same.”

“I’ve
been off for an hour.”

“Then
why are you still here?”

“I
was hoping to see you.”

She
crinkled her brow.  Hadn’t she made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to
have anything to do with him?  “Why?”

Chad
unrolled
The Oregonian
newspaper and held it up.  It was folded over to
the Art section.  “Can I have your autograph?”

Amy
zoomed in on the paper.  There was a photo of Amy’s car with the bike duct taped
to the top.  The caption underneath read: 
Emerging Artist, Amy Stewart,
Exhibits One of the Many Uses of Duct Tape.

“What’s
the meaning of this?” Chad said.

“It
was a joke,” Amy said.  “It got a little out of hand.”

“I’ll
say,” he said.  “You have to make them retract this.  You’re a doctor.  You
can’t have things like this tainting your reputation.”

Amy
wrinkled her nose at him.  “Are you being serious?”

“You
can blame it on that woman.  She made you do it,” Chad went on.

Amy
was set to spew bile and hate all over his perfect cleft when her pager went
off.  She said huffily, “I gotta go.”  She snatched the newspaper out of his
hands and strode out the door with her new tennis shoes squeaking on the
linoleum.  As she walked down the hallway, she opened the paper.  She squeaked
to a sudden stop.  “Oh my God.”  Below the photo of her car was another photo.
This one was of Jordan and Amy kissing. 

She
had just come out to the entire world.  “What’s my mother going to say?” she
said aloud.