Don't Kiss Me: Stories(12)

The detective’s head pulsed. When the waitress turned he tooted some Afrin and nearly cried. When she came back with his coffee he plucked the peanut shell from her hair and handed it to her. Thank you, she said, and she looked touched.

The detective stuck his finger in the coffee and stirred. A woman came out of the ladies’ and sat at the other end of the counter. She watched him from the corner of her eye and then she said, Sir, you are unpleasant.

The detective was startled. He threw a ten on the counter and walked out and the night was cool. He purposely mistook the city lights for stars.

He went to his car and grabbed the cuffs. Back inside the cook had his chin on his forearms and seemed to be lost in thought. Okay, the detective said, let’s go. Get up.

The woman at the end of the counter didn’t move so the detective got rough with her. He mostly yelled. The waitress wiped the counter in slow circles. The woman’s shoes were loud on the floor and louder on the gravel outside. The detective threw her in the backseat. You’re gonna talk, he hissed, and you’re gonna say what I want you to say. The woman’s eyes glittered meanly.

The detective slammed the car door and went back in for his creamed wheat. Only then did he hear the bell over the door, violent with jingling.

THE SISTER CONFESSES:

I said, This is going to hurt. I said, If you insist on being so quiet I’ll be forced to make you scream. I said, You can’t love we but we can love you.

The shears—or was it a razor?

The blade. The blade looked like a blade and cut like a blade. It happened how it should.

Our man’s eyes were a thin shade of blue. We mashed teeth when we kissed. If you see my sister tell her to give me a ring.

THE DETECTIVE:

The chief’s cigar dangled. Put her in a lineup with the others, he said.

THE WIFE CONFESSES:

Listen. She thinks I’m not listening. If she says he’s dead he’s probably dead. When we were young we buried things.

We’ve got a man on the case.

THE DETECTIVE:

The detective thought about smudging:

Description: earless body, man, blood

into his fogged windshield. The woman in the backseat whined. The highway drifted on and the detective got bored with counting lights.

Tell me, the detective said.

When I was twenty I fell in love with a houseplant, she said. When I was fifteen I murdered my mother’s fancy soaps. She said, I’ve always hated shells. Something about the shape.

The detective noted the gap in her front teeth, the brass in her hair. Maybe, he said, it’s the halving you hate.

The woman rolled onto her back and kicked the window.

The detective shook the Afrin bottle. The familiar swish was gone. He was out. He pushed the nipple up his nose and held it there. Tell me everything, he said.

Just one last thing, she said. Her voice was low and she sniffed wetly. The truth is I’d like to go home now.

The detective smelled popcorn. Wine dregs. Something warm. She’d wet herself. I’m not buying it, he said. His patience was waning. He had one hour and forty-three minutes left.

THE CORPSE:

I said a lot of things I didn’t mean.

THE WIFE AND HER SISTER:

The station boiled. Men wiped foreheads with damp handkerchiefs. Ties were loosened. In the kitchen the lone female officer pressed an icy gallon of milk to her thighs. The station pulsed. Breath was exchanged. The night wound.

The wife identified her sister. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s her, she said.

Her sister stepped forward and bowed. Her hair cascaded in a horrible wave. Bits of it clumped with blood.

The chief blew smoke rings and shot the moon. That’s our girl, he said.

THE CORPSE:

Two ears. Not even the eardrums. Cartilage, lobe. And the room bloody with blood.

The question is, is there enough of me left over for proof that I’m dead.

And should I be taking her word for it (I don’t know).

THE DETECTIVE:

The detective stopped at a druggist’s. Pulled the woman out by her ankles and righted her. She wobbled in and squinted under the fluorescents. Near the diapers he uncuffed her, noted her interesting bone structure. Some cheekbones, he told her.

The detective cleared the shelf of its Afrins. Turned to offer the woman a chocolate sip, but she was gone. He watched the flight of her hair. Into the dark mouth of the parking lot.

The detective got wistful, told himself she’d find her way.

The car smelled like brine and white sugar. The car smelled like her. The detective rolled down the windows and let the wind knife in. The clock said what it said.

THE SISTERS:

Stop crying.

I will.

You can touch me.

Where is he?

He’s everywhere. He’s just everywhere. Hold my hands. Feel how cold.

THE SISTERS:

The sisters watched themselves. The room was silver with mirrors.

At the end of the day Jameson, the chief said, and his head was blurred in smoke, we’re all just looking for ourselves. And where’s Tin Ears?

The sisters held hands over the table. Their eyes locked on their eyes.

The listening room shrugged.

THE DETECTIVE:

The detective parked at the station, crawled into the back, did the Afrin. Pushed his face into the piss-filled seat. It was no longer warm. He spotted a Tootsie Roll in the floorboard and left it there. He watched Jameson walk to his car.