Kiss Her Quiet

How would you like some calm middle-of-nowhere vibes? I’d love to send you some.


When was the last time you slept with the windows open? I’ll bet you it was too long ago. Too long since you last slipped out of a messy bed, only to crawl back in. To nestle into the warm dent you made, in a pair of plain old plaid pajamas, tangled up high around your legs. When was the last time you piled on all the covers, and just listened to it rain?

I want to introduce you to the farm. I’m on a farm — did I tell you that? It’s just for a few days, before I go Next City Shopping, but I’m beginning to think the real allure might be right here.


I wish you could come. (Come tell me if I’m crazy.)

There’d be good strong coffee, before we’d have to worry about feeding anyone else. Anyone with our legs times two. This would include the sheep (75 of them), the resident ram (yikes), and the rusty old dog (loyal to the bone). The blue-eyed kitten-cat that sometimes slinks around — we wouldn’t need to worry about her. She seems to take care of herself.


Just down the road, there’d be more mouths to feed: horses and cows and goats, mainly. But also: chickens! Chickens that seem to get a real kick out of crossing the road. (Honestly. We’d have to make a quick detour and stop for a second, just so you could see them.)


We might end up deciding to omit the chicken coop from the tour — it is kind of a hike. But we’d wind up with something to eat too, I’d make sure of it. If not eggs, then old-fashioned oatmeal — with slippery-sweet nectarines and fistfuls of raspberries, folded right in. We’d make it on the stove and try not to completely cream the pot, again. We’d try really hard.

We’d listen to music while we ate — when was the last time you did that? If you’d be too shy to sing along, I know someone who’d be happy to step right up.


After breakfast, there would be any number of things we could do. (Things we could bake!) But we might decide that it’d be awfully nice to bundle up and go for a walk. A long one — out where it’s green, green, every color green. We could go all the way out to the rose garden, if we felt like it.


And then we could agree that it might be nice just to sit, for a few minutes.


And whenever we felt lonely, we could head back inside. Inside, in search of some company.


We’d find it, in one form or another. We could always curl up with a book. A library of books. With so many paragraphs, so well written:

“Kiss her. Slowly, take your time, there’s no place you’d rather be. Kiss her but not like you’re waiting for something else, like your hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. Nothing like that. Kiss her like you’ve forgotten any other mouth that your mouth has ever touched. Kiss her with a curious childish delight. Laugh into her mouth, inhale her sighs. Kiss her until she moans. Kiss her with her face in your hands. Or your hands in her hair. Or pulling her closer at the waist. Kiss her like you want to take her dancing. Like you want to spin her into an open arena and watch her look at you like you’re the brightest thing she’s ever seen. Kiss her like she’s the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. Take your time. Kiss her like the first and only piece of chocolate you’re ever going to taste. Kiss her until she forgets how to count. Kiss her stupid. Kiss her silent. Come away, ask her what 2+2 is, and listen to her say your name in answer.” -Azra T., “This Is How You Keep Her”

We’d pick our favorites and read them all twice. And then we could — should — think twice. Because if we moved out here, we’d basically be kissing the possibility goodbye.


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