The sound of kissing is rather disgusting if you think about it. Or if you’re subjected to listening to it in a public environment that you either cannot leave or are stubborn in your decision not to.

At least that’s how it feels right now; sitting in a coffee shop the couple next to me at the window bar sitting so close they might as well ditch the separate chair backed stools. He won by somehow – on accident? – taking the more comfortable chair, the one with the cushion, but they’re so absorbed in each other it’s doubtful either notices that they’re sitting in chairs of different styles in terms of backs and seats.

It’s cold here; both are bundled in winter coats. His is one of those Valcom ski jackets in a muted brown pattern, her’s is the typical black down with fur hood. She’s tucked into him, just inside his right arm and their heads are so close the kissing is apparent only by sound, which is nice in their way of creating a private space and explains why they don’t feel like they have an audience. They don’t know there’s a creepy-ass writer sitting behind them feeling disgusted.

Or maybe they do and that’s the appeal of it. The being in public and feeling like they’re doing something of risk. Hail my men and be of good valor! Their faces are hidden from me since they’re buried in each other, so I can’t make an accurate guess at age. Ope! There’s a glimpse of his… high school maybe? Or at least that’s what I want to think. That’s the age where you get to be nasty and everyone just attributes it to just being hormonal. Oh, those were the days. The good old days of blaming it all on hormones.

Now they just call me a fucking weirdo at best or a perve at worst.

Ah well.

 

 

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