kissing

He could have kissed her in the outskirts of London, still technically in the city but twenty minutes from the nearest tube station. They were lost and atop a bridge, their fingers clutching at the wire netting. The wind teased the tassels of his hat and made the unfastened clasp of her bag dance. Below them, a traffic sign read, "CAUTION: Humped Zebra Crossing." Both could barely breathe from laughing, and they clung to the bridge to keep standing. He could have kissed her in England.

He could have kissed her under the puzzle-piece cliff in Edinburgh. They were both visiting for the first time, and after a three minute walk from the antiquated bus station, a river appeared, bordered by endless apartments of brick and glittering windows. A cliff-face rose opposite, fully in the sun and impossibly tall over the sea. Silent, they stopped on the sidewalk, tourists knocking past their shoulders. The two stole looks at each other, both blind from the sun. He could have kissed her in Scotland.

He could have kissed her atop a cathedral in Cologne, 515 feet in the air and with time moving fast forward. Snowflakes stuck to her hair and his beard. A play set of a city unfolded below them, and she pretended to reach down and move a figure to a distant roof. He smiled at her, unable to turn away from the white snowflake on her eyelash, caught above her blue eyes. He could have kissed her in Germany.