Landed, stranded in a one kiss town, where the sun cuts like a knife and the rain, the daily, nightly ever present threat of rain is the promise of a breathing space. Kiss me here, not there, kiss me once, not twice, not thrice, but just right.
The rituals of people meeting vary from place to place – -in some Parisian suburbs they kiss four times, in the south of France they often kiss thrice, in other places twice, in England you just go “Awrite?!” and maybe nod slightly, raise a hand, -yes, that bland! — and it is, perhaps, peculiar that most people think that their particular way of saying hello is the only way, the right one. So, our landlady laughed me out when I fished for a second kiss upon arrival in what is clearly, then, a one kiss town – and there seems to be no horses at all??
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what, you want to kiss the horses too?