Maizie knew it was coming; her first real kiss.

Papa insisted his girls were to pretty to wear makeup; he didn’t realize Carmel had a stash of face paints and lipsticks.

She snuck into her older sister’s room and took a bright red lipstick.

Liberally applying it to her pouty lips, she kissed the mirror over her vanity table. She tried her mouth in various positions, imaging the cold mirror was a man’s warm lips.

“How absolutely dreamy,” she thought. “How grown-up I shall be when a man kisses me.” She didn’t want any of the boys who hung around the front porch; she was after a man.

Like the secret gentleman who courted her sister. Older, wiser, and dashing, Maizie imagined. She dreamed that her sister was swept away by his kisses, consumed by love, and thus left the house, running to the arms of her gentleman.

Papa would be livid; he would turn as red as Maizie’s painted lips.

There was a banging on her door. The mirror was covered in pursed and open lip prints. “Bug,” whispered her sister, “give me back my Passion’s Flame Red lipstick. I know you have it.”

Maizie made no noise; she was good at stillness. It was how she learned things she wasn’t supposed to know. No one noticed her crouched beneath a table, or flush against the back of a sofa in the space between the wall.

Carmel retreated; she would have to wear Roland’s second favourite colour, Ardor’s Bliss Blush. Extra perfume – First Kiss – his first gift should make up for the colour of her lips.

Maizie was left to clean the mirror; she saw her face reflected streaked in red, “as if I have the plague or miasma fever,” she thought. “How unromantic to die unkissed.”

After sneaking down to the kitchen to fetch vinegar and newspaper, and scrubbing away for what seemed like a life time, her face was not longer reflected as pox marked red.

“Not a bad face,” she thought, forming her lips into a kiss and blowing it away. Time to practice that. Then to read one of those dreamy romantic poets. Like Shelly: ”The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?”

Maizie sighed; she was sure her first real grown-up kiss would be soon.

A late submission to Tale Weaver #129 : Kiss.  And,

You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by