The Kiss

If I had one regret in life, it would be that I don’t remember the first time I saw the woman who would change mine. You’d think that someone up there would provide flashing, neon signs declaring ‘this is it’ at the pivotal moment.. Instead, if it hadn’t been for the chance comment of a colleague, I may have missed mine completely.
“Right on time.” Amanda had taken on the role of my unofficial mentor in the months after the museum hired me and I was in the habit of hanging onto every word she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“That old woman there- in the grey. She comes to this room every Thursday morning and just stares at that sculpture.”
“Oh. Okay.” At the time it was just another piece of information to help me get by. She wasn’t the only regular I’d noticed with militant visiting habits, and I was too busy finding my feet to be concerned with their quirks.

But there was something about Sophie Robinson that intrigued me. After Amanda left me in the room, I found myself drawn to her and her elegant, yet faraway demeanour. Her eyes were fixed upon Rodin’s ‘The Kiss’, appearing to take in every curve of the two figures, the natural, warm melding of the two bodies, despite the cold, hard granite they had been cast in.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I’d always liked the piece, but the magnificence of it had suddenly hit me, I couldn’t help but comment.
“Excuse me?” We were the only two people in the room and I had broken the museum’s unofficial code of silence, intruding on her privacy.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just.. I was just thinking how stunning the statue- The Kiss- is”. Something about this woman had me in awe, causing me to trip and stumble over my words as I tried to force them out, as if I were ten years younger and talking to my first crush.
“Oh yes.” She breathed out contentedly. “Truly wonderful”. She relaxed back into her world. “I often wish I could touch them. Become a part of them. It seems such a shame that you can’t.”
“I see what you mean.” Despite the lovers being so involved in one another, there was something about them that seemed to invite you to join them, to share in their happiness. “I suppose you know the story it’s based on? Dante’s Inferno-”
“Circle 2, Canto 5. Murdered by her husband so they couldn’t be together.”
“But do you ever think that maybe it’s best like that? For them to be killed before they got torn apart or they started arguing all the time or something? In a way they’re kind of lucky that they get to stay like this forever.”
It was something that had always crossed my mind when I’d come across such ill-fated love stories. A pang of jealousy that they’d experienced true love without it turning sour, even if they’d had to die for the cause. I’d never had the courage to voice my thoughts on this before, but there was something about the woman which invited such openness.
“You’re an interesting one.” For the first time, her gaze was drawn from Rodin’s work, her wise, grey eyes studying me instead. “What’s your name?”
“Alison. Alison Edwards.”
“Alison…” Her mouth formed the name, let it linger in the air, as if she were trying to connect it to something. “Well, Alison, I’d never thought of it like that. I’d like to think that they would have been happy together. But I suppose you’re right, not all love stays so perfect.”
We both turned back to the sculpture, lost once again in the folds of Paolo and Francesca’s adoring embrace.
“Do you have the time? I’ve forgotten my watch.” Reality hit.
“5 past twelve…”
“Oh goodness. My husband will be wondering where I am.” She began to pick up her belongings, her poised manner becoming more hurried. “Well, Alison, it was lovely to meet you.” She held out her hand, aged by the wrinkles carved into it.
“You too Mrs-”
“Robinson. But call me Sophie.”

That was the first of what was to be many meetings with Sophie. Usually we exchanged no more than a knowing smile or friendly hello as we passed one another on the stairs or between rooms. But occasionally, if I were lucky, I would find myself in Rodin’s room. I treasured those days, as we spoke about art, about The Kiss, about kisses in general. Her first was with a man who she had to leave for her now-husband, chosen for her by her parents. Even up until her wedding day they had shared deliciously illicit encounters, referring to one another as Paolo and Francesca because of their similarities to the statue’s story, knowing it could never work. Now all she had left of him was her Thursday mornings in the gallery. Every time I learnt a little more about the man; he had married, she said, had a baby girl, who would now be a young woman. They hadn’t spoken since her birth, the child had become his number one priority, and then she had read of his passing, their love left reconciled. Sophie, on the other hand, had never known the pleasure of children, though she never revealed why this was.

I drunk in every word she said, my schoolgirl crush growing ever more intense by the day. I rarely spoke about myself, content to listen to her lilting voice, to learn every detail of her fascinating, heartbreakingly beautiful story. Occasionally, however, she would implore me to reveal little snippets of information, return the favour. Today was one of those days.
“So what makes you so cynical about love, Alison?” She liked to refer to me as Alison and I liked the soft way that she took her time over every syllable, reveling in the attention she paid me; even my mother had never seemed to be so interested in me, or spoken with me in such depth.
“What?” I forgot my manners, her question catching me off-guard.
“The first day we spoke about the statue, you said love couldn’t stay perfect forever. For someone not even thirty, it seems sad that you’d think like that?”
“I. I’m not sure. Just judging by my parent’s marriage, I guess.” I hesitated; I’d never talked intimately about my family before. But when I was with Sophie everything was different. “I don’t think my Dad was ever really there for my Mum- there was another woman. I don’t think he ever really got over her. I don’t think Mum could ever come to terms with that. So they were constantly arguing. I just always figured that that’s how marriages worked and you just got on with it.”
“Marriage doesn’t have to be like that. Maybe it’ll be better for you?”
“I doubt it…” My voiced trailed off as my eyes turned back to Paolo and Francesca. With every day the scene seemed to grow more vivid. I could almost hear the whispered ‘I love yous’ that floated on the calm breeze, brushing the lover’s naked backs. I could almost feel the sand taken from beneath their toes by the endless sea, that reflected the stars I could picture almost perfectly in the sky above. But like the sand, the scene was stolen from me with the realization that this was something I could never have.
“Why then.” Sophie interrupted me, “Do you have that ring?” She nodded in the direction of my hand, bearing an overly fancy band of gold, complete with too many expertly polished diamonds.
“I don’t know.” I paused, searching for answers and failing. “I honestly don’t know.” As she touched my hand, gently, knowing, fighting back the tears was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

Some weeks passed and I found myself unable to secure myself a position in the room again. Not even a chance meeting between us occurred and I found myself growing restless with desperation just to speak with her once more. It was the one Thursday I thought I had succeeded in doing so that Amanda found me:
“Someone’s waiting for you in reception.”
Repressing profanities, I made my way to the front desk, only to be confronted by a man I had never seen before. He caught my eye a moment too long, uttering, almost inaudibly.
“You’re exactly as she described.”
“Huh?” My confusion appeared to cause him to find himself, and he held out his hand.
“Forgive me. I’m Sophie Robinson’s husband. George.”
“Alison Edwards.”
“I know. She spoke so fondly of you, I feel as if I know you already.” His voice trailed off.
“Spoke..?”
There was a silence before he looked at me again. I knew what was coming. “Is there anywhere more private we could go?” I nodded, and silently, and disregarding all rules, led him into the staffroom. We sat in silence until he decided to speak.
“She passed away three weeks ago. She had been ill for a long time. Reoccurring cancers, there wasn’t much more of her left. But she fought it until the very end, she never let it take over. She still insisted on being independent, coming here alone.” He looked up, straight at me, as if trying to find something. “She really appreciated your talks, you know. You were the only person who didn’t try and treat her like an invalid. I think she felt like she could tell you anything. Things I don’t think she even told me. Things I daren’t ask her about for fear of what she’d say.”
“She spoke of you. She loved you a lot.” It wasn’t my place to reveal Sophie’s secret, but I could at least reassure him of what had been true. Another pause, then:
“Anyway, I came by because I found something I think she wanted you to have.” Slowly, he reached to his pocket and drew out an envelope, the name of the museum printed above mine on the front. His hands explored every inch of the soft, white reams, taking in every last trace of his wife. “I haven’t looked at it, but I’m sure it makes sense to you.” Slowly, he handed his wife’s last secret over to me. I took it from him and tucked it into my breast pocket. Silently, I walked him to the main museum. I knew then, from the sad, far-off look in his eyes, that this was the last time I would see George Robinson. I was the key to a part of his wife he would prefer to forget.

I tried to ignore the incessant rub of the letter against my chest for most of the day, waiting until the museum was closed and I could sit, alone, in Rodin’s room to open it. Eventually the time came. Sitting in Sophie’s seat, my trembling hands moved slowly the envelope, to reveal a black and white photograph, creased from over-handling. Two figures on a beach, arms wrapped around one another, the woman’s head resting on the man’s shoulder. I looked closer. My hands began to shake. The figures were unmistakable. Sophie and my late father.

Head spinning, I turned the photograph over, revealing a fading, handwritten date in the corner. A year before my parent’s wedding. Underneath that, something written in newer ink. I hope this answers some questions. You reminded me of him the moment we met. You were the daughter I could never give him, for so many reasons. But he loved you, very much. I don’t think our affair ever truly ended, and we are together now. Thank you so much, Alison. Good luck in finding your Paolo.

The tears came. Sadness, confusion, relief, slid down my cheeks and decorated the floor below. Then, without thinking, I slid my hand over my finger and removed the ring, placing it in my pocket. I walked over to Paolo and Francesca and let my newly liberated hands explore them; every inch of Paolo’s strong, protective form and of Francesca smooth, submissive body became mine. I took in every contour, every crevice, every crease of their worlds, until the tears finally stopped.

That night, I stood outside and stared at sky. The stars were brighter than usual and the breeze was cool and gentle against my skin. Calmly I took the photograph and the ring from my pocket, and stared at them one last time. I tore the photograph into hundreds of pieces and threw them all to the wind. The ring disappeared into the ground; to this day I don’t know where it landed. But the pieces of the photograph flew from me and danced with the elements among their stars.

(Rodin's 'The Kiss' can be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Kiss_%28Rodin_sculpture%29)