The Library of Kisses
The building is glass and mesh, large but not intimidating. Rather, welcoming. A cantilever of floors over the city street. We can see lights inside but can’t quite make out what is there. We move closer, holding tight to each other’s hands. Curious and eager.
The door swings open as we approach. No sound. Daylight streams in from high clerestories. An escalator in the lobby moves upwards silently, smoothly, continuously. We step onto it and gasp as we realize where we find ourselves. This is the famous Library of Kisses.
The librarians have used the Greek names for Love to organize and label all eight of the floors: Eros (the body), Philia (the mind), Storge (family), Ludus (play), Mania (obsession), Pragma (endurance), Philautia (self, soul), Agape (highest form of love, divine).
Each floor opens as we rise, each with wooden tables, small lamps and silk pillows. Each pillow has a tag sewn neatly on its edge. Perched on the pillows, the embodiment of love: lips. Lips in all shades of red, pink, brown; lips narrow, lips full, lips parted, lips glistening, lips wet, lips pursed, lips smiling. Combinations of these traits, too--an infinite potential for kisses.
We leave the escalator to examine the offerings on the Ludus floor. It is an airy floor, all shades of green. One entire aisle has red-labeled Cans of Bliss, the red vibrating against the greens of the room. The pillow tags describe the qualities and applications of the nestled lips, of the proffered kisses.
I contemplate a smiling pair of lips, plump and very lifelike, when my companion leans over, “Stop reading for a minute,” she says. She lightly touches the lips on the pillow with her index finger and they disappear like a bubble, with a soft pop. “Here is that kiss. Like this.” She nuzzles her lips under my ear, a warm, soft exploration ending in a little nibble on my ear lobe. “It is supposed to tickle,” she says, drawing back to study me.
“Yes, it does,” I say in appreciation. “How did you know?”
“See the sign? This whole table has tickling kisses. Over there are the slurping smooches, right near the movie kisses.”
“Can we take some of those home?” I wondered. “For later?” The lips she had touched are returning, it looks like a mist, condensing into their original form on the pillow.
She grabs my hand and pulls me back onto the escalator, this time going down. We stop and get off at Eros. “Here, this is what I want to take home,” she says. “Some of this.”
A librarian approaches us, a friendly smile on her lips. “First time?” she asks.
It’s a little embarrassing, to be honest, to be caught on this floor. It is pink, purple and glittery. The heat is turned higher here than the other floors, making me damp. The pillows are larger than the others upstairs and they appear to be dented and rumpled, as if these lips had been moving. And indeed, as I watch, I see activity. Slow opening, closing, smiling, exhalations, panting, rolling—it is as if the lips were part of exercises and dances, but in slow motion. I blush, understanding at last what this all about.
My friend stammers out, “Yes,” she says. “First time.”
“Don’t be nervous,” the librarian says. “Many people start here. It is a good place for a beginning.”
“Can we take any of these home?” my friend asks. I admire her directness.
The librarian doesn’t answer right away. She tilts her head and contemplates me. “I see you have already found the tickling kisses. That’s very good.” She points to the skin beneath my ear and shows my friend the sign of our experiment on the Ludus floor. She tells us how each kiss leaves a small glow of warmth in its place. “You have already found the way to take our kisses home,” she says. “That glow will last a few hours and you can place those kisses in new places. Simply use your lips to pick up the warmth and transfer it. Once you have learned it, it is yours, ingrained, to repeat as often as you wish.”
The Library of Kisses is a vast and educational place, each kiss catalogued, each kiss a lesson. We can try any that we like. The Eros librarian leads us to the table with the French kisses, the deep kisses, the noisy kisses. She seems to float rather than walk. We float along after her.
As I wonder about this, she explains more. Time is adjusted here like the heat and it is effortless to be in the spell. On this floor, everything moves in slow motion in order to preserve the kisses. They are powerful, demanding near total surrender to learn fully by heart. She cautions us to choose what we want but to take it home in our own bodies before bestowing it on to the other. “You’ll need privacy,” she says, her eyes glowing. She looks at each of us, slowly, of course. “Remember, you can return,” she says. “We encourage it.”
In spite of the lazy heat and the warp of time, my heart races. I want to select our new kiss, head to my place sooner than later. I lean over the pillows to read, my friend’s hand in mine. We exchange glances, slowly lick our lips in unison. We nod. We choose the Soul kiss to make our own.
