Inspired by the song playing in the background, ” Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me. By George Michael and Elton John, dedicated to their mums.
FROM KISS TO KISS.
Arthur Pumble, a man of quiet habits and even quieter trousers, embarked upon his grand photographic project in the nascent twilight of his retirement. From the discreet vantage point of a rose bush or a conveniently placed bird feeder, one could observe that Arthur had always possessed a certain… gravity. Not in the scientific sense, but more like a small, unassuming black hole of cheer. His life, one might surmise, had begun to feel a tad sepia-toned, much like those old photographs he now inexplicably cherished. He mumbled often about “fading to black and white,” and how he was “growing tired, and time stood still before me,” a sentiment that usually preceded a sigh so profound it could deflate a bouncy castle. He seemed “frozen here on the ladder of my life,” endlessly polishing the same rung.
Then came the epiphany. It arrived not, as one might expect, in a flash of divine inspiration, but in a discarded literary magazine at the local dentist’s office. An article, dense and gloriously overwritten, on the multifaceted nature of The Kiss. Arthur, captivated by phrases like “irresistible, unbridled desire” and “first unforgettable brick,” decided then and there to create his own “Kiss Atlas.” He would capture every nuance, every meaning, every passionate, provocative, or preposterous pucker. His beloved wife, Mildred, whose affection for Arthur was a sturdy, sensible, and utterly unphotogenic thing built on forty years of shared silence and lukewarm tea, merely raised an eyebrow.
“Arthur,” she’d said, without looking up from her crossword, “the only kiss you’ve ever truly mastered is the one you blow at the television when the snooker’s on.”
The observer noted that Mildred’s love was indeed the kind that “doesn’t bring tears to your eyes,” primarily because it was too busy preventing them from forming in the first place through sheer, unyielding practicality.
Arthur, however, was undeterred. He purchased a second-hand camera with more dials than a space shuttle, and began his quest. He spoke of capturing “a real kissing atlas,” of “unhinging prejudices,” and of showing the world that “a kiss is never the same as another.” Mildred braced herself.
His first subjects were Mrs. Henderson, a woman whose primary personality trait seemed to be her prize-winning roses, and Mr. Grumbles, who resembled a disgruntled garden gnome. Having read about the “provocative, transgressive kiss between two people of faith,” Arthur decided to adapt this. He envisioned a dramatic, almost scandalous embrace defying the mundane.
“Right,” Arthur announced, waving his camera like a conductor’s baton, “Mrs. Henderson, Mr. Grumbles. I want raw emotion. Defiance! Think of it as a statement against—well, against all those red and green. garden gnomes!”
Mrs. Henderson, convinced this was some avant-garde horticultural project, leaned in cautiously. Mr. Grumbles, startled, instinctively flinched, resulting in a rather unfortunate headbutt. The ensuing picture, when developed, showed Mrs. Henderson with a startled grimace and Mr. Grumbles rubbing his forehead, both looking less “transgressive” and more “mildly concussed.” It was, in its way, a kiss that certainly “changed their way of life,” albeit briefly, in the middle of a rose patch.
Next, Arthur, having pondered Brezhnev and Honecker’s “socialist solidarity kiss,” decided to attempt a local version. His subjects were Barry and Kevin, rival pigeon fanciers who had bickered over nesting rights for decades.
“Visualize unity!” Arthur implored, attempting to usher their stiff, tweed-clad forms together. “A transport of solidarity! Show the world that even in the fiercely competitive world of pigeon racing, there can be… communion!”
Barry, smelling an opportunity to elbow Kevin subtly, leaned in with a mischievous glint. Kevin, expecting a whispered insult about his prized fantails, turned his head sharply. Arthur captured Barry’s lips, making firm, unyielding contact with Kevin’s earlobe. Kevin let out a startled squawk, remarkably pigeon-like. This “kiss” certainly didn’t “allow a fragment of your life to wander free.” It instead caused Kevin to spend the rest of the afternoon wandering the cul-de-sac muttering about “assault by an avian enthusiast.”
Arthur’s enthusiasm, however, seemed impervious to failure. The observer noted his growing weariness, his shoulders slumped slightly with each botched attempt, and a subtle darkening around his eyes—the subtle signs of “the sun going down on me.” He often muttered, “I can’t light no more of your darkness,” a line he had recently discovered in a song and applied liberally to his uncooperative subjects.
His grand finale, he declared, would be a recreation of the “very sensual… between two statues” kiss, but with living, breathing (and preferably compliant) human beings. He tried to convince Mildred to pose with him for a “Manhattan” inspired shot.
“Just like Woody Allen and Diane Keaton on Pier 17!” he’d enthused, clearing the living room furniture to create his urban pier. “Passion, Mildred! The desire for exclusivity that leads two human beings to estrange themselves from the context that surrounds them!”
Wearing her sensible housecoat, Mildred looked at the makeshift “pier” (two overturned ironing boards) and then at Arthur, attempting to achieve a smouldering gaze by squinting.
“Arthur,” she said, her voice flat, “the most exclusive thing about us is our shared subscription to Amateur Gardening Weekly.” Grudgingly, she agreed to stand on an ironing board.
Arthur tried to direct her. “See me once and see how I feel!” he urged, quoting a line from his favourite new song. “Don’t discard me just because you think I mean you harm!”
Mildred sighed, then leaned forward. Arthur, aiming for the perfect angle, fumbled with the focus, tripping over a discarded gardening magazine. He stumbled into Mildred, who, to regain balance, instinctively pushed him away. The flash went off, capturing Arthur mid-lurch, looking like a startled penguin, and Mildred, mid-shove, with an expression of pure, unadulterated exasperation. It was less “sensual” and more “self-defence.”
Arthur looked at the developed print. His “atlas” was a collection of grimaces, headbutts, ear-kisses, and a picture of him falling over. He sat in his armchair, the grand plans for “revolution” fizzling into dust. “It’s too late to save myself from falling,” he whispered, staring at his blurry images. “And losing everything is like the sun going down on me.”
Mildred, sensing his genuine despondency, put down her crossword. She walked over to him, not with a dramatic flourish, but with the quiet inevitability of a brewing storm. She didn’t offer a grand, romantic embrace. Instead, she reached out, gently took the appalling photograph from his hand, and placed it face down on the coffee table. Then, without a word, she leaned in and gave him a small, precise peck on the cheek beneath his ear where Barry had once kissed Kevin. It wasn’t passionate, transgressive, and certainly wouldn’t win any photographic awards. It was just… Mildred.
Arthur looked up, surprised. It wasn’t the kind of kiss he had been chasing, the kind described in lofty articles. It didn’t make the earth move in his hands. But his lips curved into a small, genuine smile for the first time in weeks. There were no tears, no grand pronouncements, just a quiet understanding. It was the “love that doesn’t bring tears to your eyes,” the kind that had been there all along, patiently waiting for the sun to set on his misguided artistic ambitions so it could finally cast its own, unassuming glow.
He submitted his collection to the local photography competition, aptly titled “FROM KISS TO KISS: An Interpretive Atlas.” The judges, quite bewildered, awarded him a special commendation for “Most Abstract Expression of Human Connection.” Arthur, surprisingly, didn’t mind. He had found his own “fragment of life to wander free.” And from the quiet observation post of the rose bush, one could discern that though Arthur Pumble’s pictures might still fade to black and white, the quiet, shared comedy of his life with Mildred remained in full, vibrant colour. And that, in its way, was quite revolutionary enough.
