I met her in a bar. I went alone to have rosé and there she was, several
Elizabeth Schmuhl is a writer and
dancemaker whose work appears or
is forthcoming in Michigan Quarterly
Review, PANK, Paper Darts, Big Lucks,
Bodega Magazine, and elsewhere. She
has illustrated essays for The Rumpus
and co-edits Cheap Pop. Find her
online at elizabethschmuhl.com.
Artist Nour Tohamy is 19 years old and
derives inspiration and joy from her
travels around the world and obsession
with nature, or simply from an
interesting conversation about things
that really matter in the world and that
make absolutely no sense.
stools away, drinking a glass of merlot. I know because I asked her; it
was an excuse for conversation.
She had almond colored skin; full lips. Her hair was black and
thick. Long. I wanted to run my fingers through it.
My cigarettes were on the counter, near the stem of my glass.
She pointed to them and motioned smoking. It was a question.
“Yes,” I said. “Outside.”
The light pouring from the street lamp was buttery just like
everything in Paris. We shared the cigarette and watched as the wind
broke our tiny clouds of smoke.
I turned to her and gently combed my fingers through her hair,
finally resting them on the back of her neck. I was drunk and kissed
her passionately.
She pulled back.
“No,” she said.
A no, but she wasn’t running. She was smiling.
She cradled my face underneath my chin, and pulled me closer.
Our lips pressed; hers felt warm and bloody.
Her tongue made its way into my mouth, and stopped when it
found my tongue. She applied the slightest pressure. She tasted of pear.
Just as gently, she pulled away.
“We kiss like that,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She pulled me close again.
“It’s okay, American,” she said. “Now you show the others how
the French kiss.”