Have you ever made a single decision that changed your destiny?
Please don’t call me again.
Can you just give me five minutes to explain?
The next time you contact me, I will report you to Human Resources.
And then she hung up. I haven’t heard her voice since.
The Kiss was her favorite painting. Or at least, it used to be.
For her, it was much more than a great painting. And don’t get me wrong, The Kiss is an amazing piece of art. But for her, it was an idol of true love. Something perfect. Something untouched.
She had seen it first in a book. Later in person. After that, she looked for it everywhere: posters, postcards, coffee table books. She said she liked how the moment felt suspended, as if nothing existed before or after it. Just the kiss. She said that was what real love should feel like.
Look at our photo, honey. Isn’t that the best kiss that ever was and ever will be? Much better than that painting of yours.
It’s a great kiss, babe, but I’m sure there were other good ones. And for sure, it’s not as great as The Kiss. But thanks for being so sweet.
She always smiled when she said it. Like she was trying to protect my feelings without lying.
I laughed it off at the time. I told myself it did not matter. That painting was a painting, and we were real.
But the truth was simpler.
I was jealous. Jealous of the unnamed man in the painting. Jealous of a kiss that had no history, no context, no consequences. A kiss that never had to explain itself or ask for five minutes.
At the agency, I’m just a desk jockey. I’m not one of the heroes out in the field. I don’t chase the bad ones or stop disasters at the last second. I do not carry a weapon or wear a suit that seals itself.
I sit behind glass. I monitor. I log. I make sure nothing important changes.
But I knew what I needed to do.
The idea didn’t arrive all at once. It crept in slowly, like something I had always known and had finally stopped ignoring. If the painting meant so much to her, then it mattered. And if it mattered, then it could be adjusted.
First, I needed something valuable, easy to trade, hard to trace. Something that wouldn’t raise suspicion in any century. So I bought a Costco gold bar. Everyone appreciates a good chunk of gold.
I paid in cash. The cashier didn’t even look at me.
I kept the gold bar in my desk drawer at home for a while. Every now and then, I took it out and weighed it in my hand. It felt solid. Final. Like a promise.
I used the next holiday to sneak into the office. The building was quiet in that special way it only gets when no one expects anything to happen. I brought the gold bar and our kiss photo with me. The photo was slightly bent at the corner. I hadn’t noticed that before.
The machine was abandoned, as expected. It always is when no one important has scheduled a jump. The lights were dim. The hum was steady.
I checked the logs. Nothing unusual. Nothing that would point back to me.
I set the destination: Vienna, Austria.
I hesitated for a moment longer than I should have. Then I strapped in.
The machine doesn’t feel like falling. It doesn’t feel like moving at all. It feels like waiting while the world rearranges itself somewhere else.
When it stopped, I knew immediately. The air smelled different. Heavier. The sounds outside the chamber were muted, as if the city had not yet learned how loud it was.
I stepped out and pulled my coat tighter. Vienna felt alive in a way modern cities don’t. Less polished. More certain of itself.
I rushed to the studio. I had only a couple of hours before the return window closed. Every delay felt louder than it was.
Inside, Franz Matsch was working on a canvas. He looked up when I entered, annoyed at first, then curious. It was not easy to convince him to talk. The autotranslation made my voice sound strange, slightly out of sync with my mouth. He frowned at my accent.
Then I showed him the gold bar.
Gold does not need translation.
I showed him the photo of our kiss. He took it carefully, as it might tear. He studied it longer than I expected. He leaned back. He smiled.
He said something about intimacy. About stillness. About how some moments already look like paintings.
I asked him to paint it. Just the kiss. No background. No story. As a down payment, I offered the gold bar, promising another when I returned to collect the painting.
He asked whose kiss it was.
He nodded as if that explained everything.
When he agreed, I added one final request:
He names the painting The Kiss.
He placed the photo next to his canvas and picked up his brush. I watched for a second longer than I should have. Then I turned and left before I could think better of it.
Back in the present. I unstrapped, slipped out of the office, and searched the internet for The Kiss.
And there it was, the painting of the best kiss that ever was and ever will be. But now it was painted by Gustav Klimt. The Wikipedia page mentioned, in a side note, that Franz Matsch claimed to have inspired Klimt. He said he had given him a photo of a couple kissing. Klimt, of course, denied it.
Yesterday, I went to the 200 Years of The Kiss exhibition. I hoped she might be there, among those who call it “the greatest painting of true love ever created.”
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