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I couldn’t sleep. My mind drifted back to an incident. Someone brushed past me with his shoulder as though he was on a runway and then, quite literally, ran away. He hurried off without so much as an apology. To my surprise, I later noticed the imprint of my lipstick on the shoulder of his white shirt. Now and then, I wonder whether he ever managed to explain the mysterious mark to whoever mattered. After all, it was only an affair that lasted a second. I was merely an artist of circumstance. But how do you explain a perfectly defined pair of lips locked onto your shirt? I’m afraid I can still hear the echoes of the arguments in my head. “Who is she?” “There is no she.” “Then whose lipstick is that?” “It was an accident.” “An accident?” “Yes.” “Your shirt accidentally kissed someone?” At that point, the defence usually collapses. To anyone who cared to ask, my only response was: “Read my lips.” It’s been five years now. Although I was upset that he never apologized, I hope he is doing well wherever he is. And I hope he understands that I never intended to kiss and tell. In fact, I had no intention of kissing at all. The shirt simply got promoted beyond its qualifications. That’s the problem with white-collar jobs. Sometimes they leave evidence.