“Do you really have to put it on?” He asked, as I dipped my index
finger into a jar of night cream.
“Yes. Why?”
“It doesn't taste good.”
“It's not that you have to lick it,” I replied, tapping my
face lightly so that the cream would sink better into my skin. “Besides, you
can always kiss me on the mouth. Why is it an issue, anyway?”
He merely shrugged. “Well, I guess I miss kissing your cheek
to say goodnight, and not getting any aftertaste.”
I chuckled. “We have to continuously strive for the better
version of ourselves. Oh, and there is this thing about wrinkles, too. I don't
really fancy the idea of having time etched on my face over the years,
especially since we're not getting any younger.”
“Does this matter that much to you?” He wondered intently.
“I suppose,” I said flatly. “And does kissing my cheek
matter that much to you?”
He nodded. “Oh well, whatever floats your boat, darling. We'll figure
something out,” he concluded.
It was not until the next day, when a ray of sunshine sneaks
through the windows, that he figured something out.
“Good morning,” he greeted me with a kiss on my left cheek. “You
look beautiful today.”
“Must be the combo of the cream and beauty sleep,” I mumbled.
“How does it taste?”
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