The brush of his whiskers scratched abrasively at the red skin I had worked so hard to cover up with my foundation as I prepped for this party. It had looked like a red angry demon the size of a dime before make up. It disappeared as the cool smooth stroke of the cosmetic brush made it’s way across and around the inflammation making it barely a blip. I struggled with redness and general inflammation all my life, most likely a derivative of my growing anger at feeling I have to cover up my flaws rather than wear them like badges of honor for all the trials and tribulations I had conquered. But alas, vanity wins and I practice the art of camouflage. A longtime friend and I have been reluctantly amused by, and telling stories of, this man for years now. He and another friend of a friend, a woman, that we see periodically at parties of certain tangential connections, are what we call the dive bombers, where the kiss comes in so hard and fast you have no time to turn, or duck or do the “No you are not going to hammer my mouth because I’m onto you and this time I’m gonna turn my cheek just in the nick of time successfully evading your attack!” routine. I never win. You’d think that I’d have learned after these many years, but somehow it always comes so unexpectedly or so fast, it’s as if they both sit at home planning their strategies, with a chart of the party layout, and a laser pointer preparing their entry level positioning. I imagine them doing a visualization where they survey the room and its occupants, finding cover behind a beam or on the other side of the kitchen swinging door stiffening up their mouth weapons just waiting for me, their skittish prey.

At this current gathering I’m desperately rubber-necking to check out my look in the mirror, hoping my make up is still adequately doing what I enlisted it to do, when in a wave of confusion I am approached by one of the enemies. It is the larger and bulkier male. My brain attempts to fire quickly but his strategy proves challenging. I attempt to divert his missile of a smooch, hoping it will clear my mouth and land on the skin of my cheek, best case scenario avoiding the kiss altogether, turning it into a mere hug, worst case scenario it’s a kiss on the center of my cheek, but nope. He landed awkwardly part lips, part cheek, part demon red spot and with an uncomfortable amount of moisture. Eww and ouch. Shit I hoped my make up was still in tact but I didn’t hold out much hope as I felt a tingling, almost abrasive sensation. “Damn he out-strategized me again!” He pulls away and as I turn my head back to neutral I catch a whiff of the culprit’s surprisingly pleasant citrusy aftershave and think, “Well that’s a plus.” He has a big smile on his face and he is genuinely happy to see me, and I him. Truth be told I love this guy. He’s witty and joyous and I’ll hang out with him all night after that initial incendiary device detonates.

I feel the throb of my demon facial inflammation and scan the room in a paranoid fashion for his kindred hard-kissing soul, the other of the dive bombers in my battalion, the smaller framed female who somehow manages a more forceful smack of the two. And she smokes cigarettes. Blessedly I don’t see her. There’s no reason she would also be in attendance with this particular group, but it has happened before and I have the battle scars to prove it. Despite that logic my paranoia spikes as I make my way to the bathroom to see what damage has been done and whether the repercussions of this battle will require me to go AWOL.