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| Bridget Riley, circa 1960's. |
This story really isn't for me. I’m sure some readers will appreciate the avant-garde style and enjoy untangling the narrator’s fragmented stream-of-consciousness. It felt like I was staring at one of Bridget Riley's abstract/illusionary paintings that also don't make any sense to me.
Maybe that was the author's intention?
The premise can be found in the title and the narrator's anxiety to kiss her girlfriend is certainly palpable. As the tension ramps up (will she kiss her, won't she kiss her), so does the obscurity of the prose, until I was completely lost in a swirling vortex of random gibberish. Maybe there’s some clever connection between Bridget Riley’s art and the narrator's fragmented inner world. If so, it went completely over my head. If you love cryptic and impressionistic storytelling, then you might find it more rewarding. Unfortunately, I was just left squinting at the page, dumfounded, and could feel a headache coming on.
You can read this story HERE.
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