Write yourself into Chekhov’s “The Kiss.” But are you the lonely soldier? Or the one who bestows the kiss? What would it even mean to bestow that kiss, and then realize your mistake–could you take it back? Would you wipe the stubbly cheeks of the soldier and his chapped lips? Or is it just another kiss expended, recorded in that column of your ledger, no return, a shell investment? If you’re the lonely soldier, do you make more of an effort? Speak up! Do you, as the kissee, sprint out of that little dark room to try to find your kisser? Why let this be recorded as the saddest missed connection ever, when it is well within your power to seek out that source and spark of bright vitality? Why sulk like a dummkopf? If you really wanted happiness, you would search through all the drawing rooms in the world to find it.