Don't Kiss Me: Stories(28)

I just came for a soda, I say. I ain’t here to swim.

They don’t refill the machine until next week, the woman says. Drink the pool water, for all I care.

You hear about that Circle K burning down? I ask her. I just saw it on the news.

I used to work there, she says. Before my accident. So?

I didn’t say that I figured her accident was probably eating the shelves clean of all the Krispy Kremes. Her boy watching me with the eyes of an animal weighing its options but leaning toward napping, one eye nearly turned, give it another year and he’d have that dull button eye just like his momma.

Well, I say. That fire wasn’t no accident. Someone lit a match and put it on the shelf with the tampons. Just like if you was to be rolled into that pool to get yourself a drink of the pool water wouldn’t be no accident.

Her boy’s wet mouth opens wide, someone get the hook. What’d that lady just say? he asks.

For a second I almost say, What lady? Hard not to see myself as a true baby girl, someone close to this fish boy’s age, someone he might try his chances with.

I know you, the lady says.

No, I tell her, you don’t.

I do, she says, like she’s just won at cards. She tips her head, it’s the flat button eye’s turn to see, it rolls into place and this is a shock. I know you, girl, she says.

I know you, baby girl. Darren with that big hand around that shovel, the caramel-brown of his forearms, all muscle and vein. All throbbing tender life. And my manager saying, After this customer go on and take your break. Yeah, Darren said. Take your break. Come with me. I never saw him before in my life. Maybe he’d never seen me but he sure acted like he had. Me at the cashier station and my momma working in the jewelry section, we’d go home and eat leftovers and watch the Late Show. Or. Come with me. I did, and I found out why the shovel, and I been his baby girl ever since. Easy to let someone think they know you, long as you become who they think you are.

I got you, the lady says. I got you good. She reaches down between her legs, brings out a cell phone. You better run, she says.

I know she’s right. I should run. But I don’t. I walk slowly out. The hallway smell again, my smeared reflection in the elevator doors. The doors open, a woman in pink curlers gets off, I get on. I can’t decide what button to push. I think how I should have kicked the phone out the lady’s hands. I think how Darren only used that shovel the one time. I think how I left my smock in the break room, how that game show glittered from the TV, how it ain’t so easy to see the glitter sometimes. I think how my momma probably took that smock home to wash it. I think how I lit the match, how at first it was just a tiny flame, a dot of glitter. I think how I’ll wake Darren up, get him his pants, tell him we got to go. Put my hair in braids while he dresses. Wait for him to ask me who I am.





DON’T KISS ME



I WANT TO TELL THE WOMAN ACROSS FROM ME THAT IF YOU SPRITZ AIR FRESHENER INTO YOUR PURSE IT WILL NO LONGER SMELL SO PURSE-LIKE

BUT SEE THEN I WOULD HAVE TO EXPLAIN HOW I AM AFRAID OF THE SMELL OF NEW ITEMS, AND JUST THIS MORNING I CONFESSED HOW I AM AFRAID IT IS SALIVA COMING OUT OF THE SHOWER SPIGOT SO I DON’T WANT TO PUSH IT TOO FAR WITH HER





SHE IS BLOND


LIKE IF YOU BUY YOUR CHILD A NEW PAIR OF MARY JANES THE LEATHER STRAP SMELLS LIKE A LEATHER STRAP AND I CANNOT ABIDE IT

THIS WOMAN ACROSS FROM ME HAS A VOICE LIKE WHAT I IMAGINE BUTTERSCOTCH WOULD SOUND LIKE WERE IT NOT THE HARDENED DIARRHEAL TURD I AM CONVINCED IT TO BE

HER FACE IS LIKE WHAT A BABY’S FACE WOULD LOOK LIKE SHOULD IT SUDDENLY BECOME ATTACHED TO AN ADULT HEAD

MY HUSBAND DRANK FOUR TEQUILA SUNRISES AT THE HOLIDAY PARTY AND INFORMED ME SHE WAS ATTRACTIVE

LATER HE VOMITED DOWN HIS TIE

I THREW THAT TIE AWAY BECAUSE THAT WAS THE MONTH MY WASHER AND DRYER BECAME INHABITED BY GHOSTS OF BLACK MEN ASKING TO FONDLE MY GOURDS

IT IS NOT POSSIBLE TO BABY-FY YOUR FACE, I HAVE LOOKED IT UP

SOMETIMES I THINK ABOUT TAPING A PHOTO OF THIS WOMAN OVER MY FACE DURING ALONE TIME WITH MY HUSBAND, YOU HAVE TO BE CREATIVE IN A MARRIAGE SOMETIMES

BUT THE ONLY PHOTO I HAVE OF HER IS FROM HER CHRISTMAS CARD, SHE IS HOLDING HER CHILD AND WEARING ANTLERS AND I AM AFRAID THAT IS TOO MUCH STIMULANT FOR MY HUSBAND

THIS WOMAN EATS LIVE CUCUMBER, I HAVE SEEN IT WITH MY OWN EYES

ON OCCASION I HAVE CONVINCED THIS WOMAN TO VENTURE OUT AND EAT LUNCH WITH ME

I LIKE THE OLIVE GARDEN BUT THIS WOMAN PREFERS OUTBACK

IF WE DRIVE SEPARATE SOMETIMES I DROP BY THE OLIVE GARDEN ANYWAY

IT DISGUSTS ME TO SEE A GROWN WOMAN EAT A SALAD BUT I AM DEDICATED, I FORGIVE THIS WOMAN EACH TIME THOUGH I KNOW THE FLECKS OF LETTUCE ARE SLOWLY DISINTEGRATING HER ESOPHAGUS

YOU CAN’T SAVE EVERYONE

I HAVE A BLOND WIG, IT CAME PACKAGED WITH THE MERMAID COSTUME I BOUGHT FOR MY CHILD AT THE CVS THE YEAR SHE WAS IN HIDING, THE WIG DOES NOT FIT MY HEAD AND THAT IS WHAT THE GLUE IS FOR

I WEAR THAT WIG SOMETIMES WHEN I’M ALONE AND I MAKE MYSELF A SALAD OF PRETZELS DRIZZLED WITH TABASCO

I FEEL CLOSEST TO THE BLOND WOMAN IN THESE MOMENTS

SOMETIMES I CALL THE WOMAN ON THE PHONE EVEN THOUGH SHE IS RIGHT ACROSS FROM ME

I SAY, I SEE YOU

IF YOU WAIT FOR THIS WOMAN TO VISIT THE LADIES’ YOU CAN SIT IN HER CHAIR, IT DOES NOT KNOW WHO IS SITTING IN IT DESPITE WHAT YOU MAY BELIEVE

I ONCE ATE THIS WOMAN’S PEN CAP FROM THE WARM WOMB OF COMFORT I KNOW HER CHAIR TO BE